Orchard of Mines
by Stardustfading
Summary: In a parallel universe, America has grown to empire status alongside the Soviet Union instead of the Cold War ever tapering off, with England as his prized and broken possession. England desperately escapes to our present world, only to switch places with our England, and it can only get worse from there... Based on an RP between hetafan13 and myself.
1. America and England

**A/N:** For the sake of this story making sense, AU!America and AU!England will be referred to as "America" and "England" while our world versions of the two will be referred to as "Alfred" and "Arthur" :'D

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There is a manor on the eastern coast of North America that engulfs an unreasonable mileage of land. If anyone had been observant enough, they would have remembered a two story American Colonial that had once been there, the sizing much more modest in comparison to what now had swallowed its place. The behemoth of a home curled around a sharp cliff overlooking the bay, winding down with new additions to taper off on the sand. It was a collection of buildings, all marked the same by a crest embellished in gold—EUSA.

From a dining room that could put the Hall of Mirrors at the Palace of Versailles to shame—if it hadn't been reduced to rubble—there is an unspoken anxiety drifting through the air. What had occurred yesterday had made the head of the manor, of the Empire, less than pleased. A few servants littered with bullet holes served as testimony to that fact. A haunting whistle comes from the opposite end of the room, a set of double doors peeled back by a pair of servants. Their Master is dressed in a crisp white uniform, blindingly so—an angel of genocide and cruelty. He enters the room with calculating blues inspecting every aspect of his servants' toil. It isn't long before he reaches out with a deliberate grasp, taking a serving girl by the arm. She trembles under his gaze, knowing full well not to look at him directly.

"Oh, what's this?" he says darkly, his proximity nearly enough to send the serving girl into a heart attack. "Tell me, what's wrong with this table? What is this table missing?"

The servant starts shaking even more, glancing at the table in confusion. Their Master's grin quickly falls into an angry scowl as he takes the servant and throws her against a wall, her head hitting against the wall with a satisfying crack.

"Idiots, all of you! You served me food, with silverware, and a drink... But no napkins?" He lowers his voice, his cold grin back on his face. "Oh, I suppose you'd _love_ to see that, wouldn't you all? You'd love to see your lord and master reduced to wiping his face on his sleeve like pathetic furniture like yourselves, wouldn't you?"

All of the servants in the surrounding area quickly shook their heads "no," not daring to make a single sound for fear of further angering their master.

"Well? What the fuck are you idiots waiting for? Or do you want me to get up and get my _own_ fucking napkin?"

Quickly, the servants scramble to grab napkins for him and hand them to him, and he grins in response, satisfied as he snatches the napkins out of their shaking hands.

"Much better. Now then, I want that mess," he gestures towards the dead body lying against the wall in a pool of her own blood, "cleaned up by the time I finish my meal. Is that understood?" The servants quickly nod "yes" before going over to the dead body and lifting it up unflinchingly, much too used to situations such as these to be bothered by having to dispose of a dead body. Their Master leisurely eats his breakfast, the taste of good food calming him down slightly, and true to his command, any traces of the dead body were completely gone by the time he finishes eating. A servant immediately moves to take his plate as soon as he's done, and he quickly grabs her arm, glaring.

"...Did I _say_ I was finished?"

Without any hesitation, he crushes the girl's arm in his hand without any effort whatsoever, and the girl is forced to push back tears and a scream as the pain shoots through her entire body. His glare quickly fades into a disturbingly amused smile as he laughs.

"Just kidding! I'm done—you can take it!"

The servant girl is forced to quietly laugh along with her Master before taking his plates with her non-crushed arm and bringing them inside. He stands up and stretches slightly, the feeling of power over all of these people making him giddy with glee, and now in a much better mood (by his standards, anyway), he begins to head upstairs towards the room he had specially designed _just_ for his favorite "toy," his pet, the one he holds closest and dearest to himself.

In the heart of the manor, a person is drawn from their slumber in a fluid motion from the noise in the dining room, as if they regarded waking up as a chore that must be completed with strict discipline. The first thing the man does when he wakes is to move his fingers to his throat in some sense of false hope, hoping that today, _maybe_ just this once... there will be no sturdy collar resting around his neck. That hope, like every morning's, is dashed when his fingers brush cool leather and metal. The malnourished figure sits up in his windowless room, flanked by lavish furnishing and embellished in gold.

"_All the best for my most favorite pet."_

He rises stiffly, still very sore from last night, where his Master had taken out the frustrations of the rebel advancement on him. He learned not to question it, to scream when commanded to, otherwise not at all, to never speak out of turn or cry tears unless it was desired so. He doesn't regard it with the same distaste as he used to, that bile that rose in his throat at the thought of giving himself over to someone. He has found a way to be completely apathetic, knowing that no one out there would save him.

It was too dangerous—stealing the canary of the Empire would be far too risky.

He dresses in his familiar and plain navy blue uniform—to wear white would be a simple mockery on his behalf by the Empire of the United States of America. He isn't allowed to assert himself in any way, muddled in a splash of dismal coloring. His skin has since lost its glow, a pallor to it that would have made his emerald irises striking—if they held any light in them anymore. Their color is murky and sad. He makes sure he looks presentable, leaving his collar astray to parade the bite marks, the bruises, the burns, and the scars around when his Master comes to his chambers to fetch him. To fetch his toy. His little lap-dog that he had so carefully groomed.

_"...America, you know I'll always be by your side. You don't have to—!" _

_ "Quiet." _

_ "...How dare you speak to me this way. Do you know I'm the only one who still believes in you? Who still thinks that you haven't gone completely mad? The only one who still lov—!" _

_ There was a hand on his throat, crushing his windpipe, cerulean eyes tinted an icy color by the creeping blackness spiraling there. _

_ "...No one loves me, England. No. One." _

This was England's life at present, all stemming from that very conversation years and years ago. That moment seemed so far off. It marked the beginning of his captivity, of his enslavement. He wonders what has become of France, one of the rebels, or Germany—more commonly referred to as "West," nowadays. His brothers were allowed to remain as they were, so long as they submitted to this Empire's control. They had handed England over unflinchingly, for their part.

England stops as there is a knock at the door. He trails over to it, pulling a leash off a hook and clipping it without feeling or hesitating to a ring on his collar. Not wasting any spare time, he opens the door, eyes averted to the ground.

"Good morning, Master America."

He has learned by now not to look him directly in the eye unless specifically addressed to. It really doesn't even matter anymore. He'll never get out of here. Why fight it? America had given him many nice things when the whim occurred to him... he had also taken away many things when he felt the desire to do so. England hands him the leash, careful to incline his head downwards to show his submission, that he has no intention of running. He doesn't say anything else or move, waiting for a command to act. He wasn't his own anymore. And he never would be again.

His Master, America, grins widely as the door opens and his eyes are met with the sight of his most favorite toy, his most obedient pet, already groomed and waiting for his master. England is the only pet that America gives occasional permission to freely speak, the only one he gives additional rights to. America takes the leash, laughing slightly.

"Ah, what a nice, obedient pet I have! Preparing himself for his master like that..."

America turns around and walks away from the room, roughly tugging the leash so that England is forced down to the ground to walk on all fours, as England usually does—after all, who ever heard of a pet walking on _two legs_, like a _person_? That's ridiculous! England keeps his mouth shut, eyes never leaving the ground. It comes unexpected—since he cannot see America's intent—when he falls to the floor roughly. Yet England cannot find anything in his body that is angry. Nothing at all. He can't feel _anything_, anything but a hurried sense to right himself on his hands and knees so America doesn't beat him. He quickly gets to crawling alongside America, keeping quiet.

Not caring whether his pace is too fast for England to keep up with on all fours or not, and also not caring if he's cutting off England's supply of air by tugging on the leash too tightly when England falls slightly behind, America aimlessly walks through the hallways of his manor.

"Hmm, I wonder what we should do today?"

The leather collar presses so hard against England's throat that he can barely even get a breath. He's choking, and he forces himself to keep quiet, to keep crawling, even though his vision is blurring and black spots are dancing at the corners of his eyes. England knows better than to let strangled tears form, attempting to crawl faster. He is fully aware that America wouldn't let him _die_... for no reason other than he would loose his most valued plaything. As for the question America asks the question without an address, well, England keeps himself quiet. He knows far better than to answer. Wherever America wanted to take him, whatever he wanted to _do_ to him.. it was his choice. And England had no say in any of it.

This silence prompts America's attention, slowing down his pace slightly as he realizes that he's dragging England more than England is walking on his own. England stiffens slightly, prepping himself for a slap or a kick in order to get him to move faster. Instead, America speaks loud enough so England can't miss what he has to say, his voice warning to alert England to the fact that he's lucky that he's not being beaten right now for not keeping up with the pace that America is walking at.

"You're moving much slower than usual, today...," he notes, his voice dripping with concern that may have at one point been sincere—and, on some twisted level, may actually _still_ be sincere, if only slightly.

England detects the warning before America even needs to finish his sentence. He forces himself not to cough, not to make any sound of relief as America slows. He crawls quicker, trying to match America's new-found pace... To please him. To make it so he won't beat him. God he doesn't want that. Please. Anything but that.

"Is something the matter, England? I wouldn't want anything to be wrong with my favorite pet. Or are you just that weak and pathetic that you can't even manage to keep up?"

England knows he doesn't expect an answer from that. It's an ill-parodied phrase... Of course England isn't alright. Of course everything is the matter.. it's so _wrong_. They used to stand side by side.. England used to love him—still loves him... And how could he still love him? It's so messed up... So terribly and awfully wrong that he still wants those hands to hold him, those lips to kiss him, eyes smiling. But the light in America's eyes that was reserved for him is long gone. England doesn't even flinch as America insults him, so numbed to his brutality—unless America commands him to show emotion.

America doesn't take his contemplation lightly, and he gives England's leash a sharp tug when he feels that England doesn't respond fast enough. His inhumane strength nearly sends England toppling over, the latter pitching forward.

"How odd...I could have sworn I remembered telling you to respond to me right away when I ask you a question... Oh, but maybe I didn't. Do I need to teach you that again, pet?" he asks, his tone dark and filled with malice to match the grin on his face.

Attempting to collect himself so he doesn't inconvenience America, England forces back a choked noise, or tries to, the smallest of whimpers escapes from his throat involuntarily and his stomach dropping as all the remnant of color left in his face drains.

"N-No... Master... I'm so very sorry, Master. Nothing is the matter, please... Don't waste your kindness on something so pathetic as myself. It's simply a waste, Master. I am truly sorry."

He doesn't look up at him, nearly trembling from the fear and anticipation. He knows. He just knows that he was so very foolish for thinking he would escape a beating today. All of this seems to only please America further, him relishing in the fearful tone in England's voice, the way England's body shakes in terror, afraid of him. At one point, this scene would have made him sick to his stomach. He would've dropped to his knees in an instant and hugged England's shaking body gently against his own, shushing him, telling him not to say such things, all while sobbing out apologies of his own...but that America is long gone, never to return—or, at least, not fully, anyway. He seems to be in a good enough mood that merely seeing England so afraid of him is enough to satisfy him (for the moment, always just for the moment, since he was known to change his mood at the drop of a dime), and continues to pull England along after him.

"Yes, yes, that's right; just look at you, so pathetic...it would be a waste for me to even bother trying to reteach such a pathetic, weak, idiotic little pet like you," he says, a smile playing at his face as his boots make for a sharp staccato on the marble floors. "Ah, aren't you lucky to have such a kind Master, my little pet? I'm in such a good mood today that I don't even feel like playing too difficult of a 'game' with you today."

England stops shaking when America doesn't go to strike him hard across the face, the insults that come tumbling out of America's mouth actually make him happy. Happy because he knows that they're being used instead of the various machines and tools America possesses to make him feel pathetic, and weak, and idiotic, and most of all, a pet—a slave to this horrid Empire. His frail body is already exhausted by time America finds a suitable destination, a smirk on his face as he approaches a sturdy pair of french doors that give way to a spacious library. America tugs absentmindedly on the leash, barely glancing England's way as he attempts to force him inside while he still has the patience to tolerate England's sluggish movements—which were, to England, a direct result of missing any semblance of a meal for a couple days.

"Ah, it's been a while since I've had the chance to come here...always so busy with those silly little rebels."

America laughs coolly, forcing England along with him as he moves and browses the many shelves while humming to himself. He selects the heaviest books from their dust-caked confines on their shelves, dropping them down on England's back for him to carry. Of course it went without saying that if England were to drop a single book, there would be consequences that only one of the two would really enjoy. As each book drops onto his weakened form, England struggles not to choke or whimper, managing to keep himself upright. He crawls alongside America, not making a sound or any unwarranted movement when the books are piled up on his back. He doesn't even make any noise of struggle when the weight grows unbearable and England's back aches—his skin raw from burns, slices, carvings, lashes, and many other horrid things. His body is so weak as it is, England hardly getting much else to eat but crackers and water at irregular intervals.

There was a large stack of books balanced precariously on England's back by the time someone burst through the library door, gasping for breath as the room shakes with the impact of the forceful entry. It draws both England and America's attention, even startling the latter, who reflexively pulls out a gun that he always carried with him at all times for protection. He barely needs to take aim, raising his arm and shooting at the young male servant who burst through the door. Luckily for the servant, he had the foresight to drop to the floor as soon as he ran through the door. England tries to hold back a startled gasp at the gunshot, wanting to keep the books upright lest he wants to be beaten down as the servant begins to stammer out their business.

"M-M-My apologies M-Master, b-b-but this is a-an e-emergency! T-The rebels, t-t-they've a-attacked yet again! A-And this t-time, t-t-they..." The servant pauses, reluctant to continue. The fact that he is scared is plainly displayed on his visage. He is so obviously scared that if he finishes his sentence he will be shot, but if he doesn't finish his sentence, he will also be shot—and possibly even worse. "...T-They're winning, M-M-Master!"

Not chancing a glance at America's reaction, England swallows at such news. He knows America will be in a foul temper—and that temper will be directed at him, at his body, at his heart. America only allows a split second to take in this information before his blank look is traded for that of murderous rage as he, quite literally, shoots the messenger boy. England takes all of this in from a blind perspective, staying stagnant at the second shot. His eyes grace over the fallen servant, England unable to feel much of anything. Who did it matter? America could use all of the people in this manor as he pleased, and he could buy them eight times over with all of his wealth and subdue them just as much with his power.

"Those fucking bastards! They think the can win against me? Against the largest empire in this _world_?"

His voice whirls around off the acoustics of the library like a storm. America sets his sights on the nearest living thing, England barely having time to tense up and prepare himself before America brings his boot down harshly to clash with England's frame. There's a blooming pain in his chest, and he falls over, not even making a sound or giving a pained look when all of the books topple on him, crushing his windpipe. He doesn't try to get up, knowing when America kicks him, he has to stay down until he is commanded otherwise.

"You will stay here and behave yourself until I return. Is that understood?" America snarls, waiting for his definite response.

Taking the address as his cue to right himself, England sits up, legs folded underneath him as he bows his head low. His eyes stay trained on the floor as he speaks a subdued, "Yes, Master. I understand."

England's reply must be satisfying enough, as America takes it and turns on his heel and coldly walking out of the room. The murderous intent radiating off of his body follow him out, England waiting for any trace of him to dissipate. He doesn't even dare think to move. England has learned that America is somewhat tricky—that he can come back in at any moment, and if England had moved, he would receive a beating to remember.

There are around five clocks in the library to keep track of time with, but England doesn't risk a glance at any of them. The only way he knows time is actually passing is the fact that his legs have grown numb from the manner in which he is sitting. He would like to say he had kept up his diligence, that he had not warranted a beating, but something catches his eye.

Amongst the pile of discarded books is a thick volume, the leather binding worn and discolored from ages of use, only to sit abandoned in an ostentatious library for years. Pages are haphazardly shoved in-between others, delicate handwriting lacing the cover in Latin print. His _own _handwriting! England has forgotten what is was like to read a book, it having been so long since he was even allowed to. All of his books were confiscated from him and the majority of them burned before his eyes while America had gripped savagely into his arm, whispering into his ear.

_"Nothing belongs to you anymore, understand? You are property, and property cannot own anything."_

But this... God, how nostalgic it makes him feel to see his own handwriting! His eyes flicker to the door hesitantly, fingers itching to reach for the book. He bites his lip. It was easy to figure that America was very busy with whatever rebel advancement was underway, but was it for certain? One little peek wouldn't hurt, would it?

England numbs any other thought and quickly grabs for the book, a fluttering in his chest. He had _never_ acted out of command since his enslavement. Ever. Not even when he knew it was completely and utterly wrong to obey, most valid when America had taken over Canada. Shuddering at the images that flood his mind, England glances at the cover, something else igniting within him. Could that be hope? How long had it been since he had felt anything like this—that lifting sensation mixed with a weighted feeling of dread he is so blatantly ignoring. Hope! In his hands rests his spell book. England wants to cry tears of relief.

_A way out, a way out!_

He holds back a sob and flips the book open, eyes scanning the pages.

_A way out... Please... I need a way out!_

He can barely remember what these Latin words equate to in English. It takes him a good couple of minutes to detect the word for "escape," leading him into an attempt to read the instructions. When he has read through them a few times, he can deduce that he needs to draw an array made of blood and recite the words on the page at a basic level. What he cannot decipher is how to control where he'll end up, that being the last thing on his mind. To him, anywhere was better than here. Wasn't it?

England doesn't even flinch as he takes a poker from the fireplace and drags it across his arm—he has suffered much worse than this. It was as simple as blinking to him now. His blood washes over his arm and spills all over the finely polished wooden floors, and England pulls the rug bag to properly draw the array. The sight of his blood in mass quantities doesn't even faze him, even when he grows numb tracing looped arcs and slanted script, body wanting to just give up. He forces the Latin words past his lips, hand falling on the array to activate it as he's enveloped in a glare of light.

_Please... Take me away from here.. Please.._

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**A/N: **Aha, so that's it for this chapter. More background about the situation in the parallel world is yet to come in the next few chapters. Arthur and Alfred will be making their appearance in the next chapter! Thank you for reading.**_  
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	2. Alfred and Arthur I

**A/N: **This chapter switches to our world, with our world USUK pair, Alfred and Arthur.

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It wouldn't be anything like a World Conference if it didn't start off with a bang.

The band of nation incarnates are fanned around a polished oak table in an ornate, two story building in the heart of London, currently engrossed in a heated argument like one would watch a ping pong match. The day's blowout falls between the representation of the United States of America—better known to most as Alfred F. Jones, (self-proclaimed) hero extraordinaire, and the representation of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, magical enthusiast Arthur Kirkland. However, if either was asked to refer to one another, it would probably follow the lines of a "hamburger loving idiotic git who can't keep his bloody mouth shut for more than five seconds" and a "stuffy, sharp-tongued, large-eyebrowed, perpetually angry British nation" respectively.

Alfred cannot recall why he and Arthur are playing hot potato with fiery insults. He is only conscious of the fact that his anger and frustration have broke through their dam, stressing their need to be conveyed towards the source of such irritation in Arthur, who—from Alfred's standpoint—liked to insult him to make himself look much smarter than he really was. Yet Arthur believes he is much more observant, and he would tell anyone who asked him that this whole issue stemmed from Alfred's incessant babbling.

For the duration of the conference, Arthur had kept his mouth shut, clenching the fine china tea cup in his hand so hard he broke the handle off of it as Alfred rambled on about nothing. Absolutely nothing, and not one of the others had sought fit to derail him from his rant. They were either completely tuning him out, staring at him in annoyance, or too kind to cut in. Arthur is utterly embarrassed—knowing all eyes are on him in expectancy. Since Arthur had raised Alfred, they so obviously looked to Arthur to take care of him. Yet Arthur was here to say he wasn't Alfred's babysitter. Not anymore, and never again.

So when Arthur stood up and insulted Alfred for the first time, he was unsure why the surprise retorts carved deep into his heart. He was equally unsure why he kept running his own mouth, flinging harsh words as his cheeks grew hot and his breathing short. Even now, he's very aware—much to his chagrin—that all eyes are on the both of them, flickering from speaker to speaker as they continue to battle it out.

This crossfire had continued for what seems like ages, culminating to this very moment as Alfred has a go, launching a taunt about Arthur going senile with all his "imaginary friends" that only he can see. He builds onto it in a blinded rage. Arthur quickly taps into a rebuttal, about to spitfire something else equally nasty when Alfred cuts in, apparently unfinished in his insults, screaming back at him.

"And another thing, there's a _reason_ why I fucking declared my independence from you, you know—so I wouldn't have to fucking put up with you or any of this crap!"

Arthur stops to drink in Alfred's words, his expression, the malice in his eyes that quickly turns to a startled expression, as if he isn't sure where or who those words erupted from. It's clear in Alfred's eyes that he knows he shouldn't have said that. The subject of the Revolutionary War was pretty much taboo for Arthur, and yet not only did Alfred just bring it into the argument, but he did so in probably one of the most horrible ways that he ever could have. Even so, he refuses to take back his words, continuing to stubbornly glare at Arthur while continuing to see red. Suddenly, the room was completely silent save for Alfred's heavy breathing from his outburst. No one dared to say anything, to make a single sound, all eyes now on Arthur as they wait for some kind of reaction... Any kind of reaction other than him just standing there, eerily still and even more eerily calm and quiet.

While the scene continues for everyone else, Arthur's mind numbs. He mulls over the words... Tries to put them together... And oh, do those words burn. He closes his mouth, face paling. There's nothing for him to say in response—nothing is an adequate response to such a statement. It doesn't even require an answer. What seems to make him suffer the most aren't the actual words, but more that he knows how true they are. Of course Alfred didn't want to deal with him. Frankly, who did? He doesn't even know why he tries to get Alfred's attention when he claims he is such an annoyance, but if Alfred is so annoying to him, then why does it hurt so bad to feel his scathing insult, in front of everyone? Arthur can feel the embarrassment and scorn on his cheeks in the form of a furious heat. His eyes drop onto the desk in front of him, avoiding looking at anything but he suit-coat and briefcase, which he grasps for with trembling hands. All he is aware of at the moment is a desire to _get out_, to escape from this place. He can no longer stand to be in this room, Arthur leaving his teacup abandoned as he moves to the front of the room. No one makes a move to stop him—most certainly not Alfred, who merely just stares blankly at the spot where Arthur had been standing before.

"...If you'll please excuse me."

His voice is quiet—Arthur finds it hard to allow words around his tightening throat. He doesn't meet anyone's eye, and he doesn't look back to Alfred, not wanting to see Alfred look at him... Not wanting to see Alfred's gaze that he imagines is calm matching up with his falling to pieces. He tries to keep a stoic disposition as he leaves the room, but he knows his eyes are sad. It hurts to know that... know... know what, exactly? What? Why was he so upset?

He grits his teeth and jabs for the elevator button. The doors slide open, and Arthur pauses. It's so very foolish, and he tries telling himself that he's _not _waiting for a boisterous voice to come crashing in behind him.. to tell him to wait, that he didn't mean it. But there's nothing in the hallway save for his own ragged breathing and the air conditioning blasting down on him from the vent above.

He steps into the elevator without bothering to turn around and slams for a button—he's been in this conference center so many times he can make his way to the room in his sleep. Before he knows it, he's slapped with a torrential downpour, him cursing London's overcast weather. He guesses it's his fault in part, really. It was perfectly sunny this morning, so he had opted to walk, neglecting to take an umbrella with him. Arthur vies for a cab until he remembers he forgot his wallet on the counter. Balling his fist around the strap of his briefcase, he trudges against puddles, and it isn't long before he is completely doused in rainwater. Arthur isn't sure if that's the only thing dampening his cheeks as he continues on. He's completely and utterly miserable. If that blasted day in July could put him in a foul mood, such an affirmation of it only served to make things worse.

When he finally reaches his home, it comes as a fresh relief, knowing he can peel out of these clothes and take a nice hot shower. He takes satisfaction in the idea that he can just turn in and forget about everyone else, that he can close himself off from the world for a while. He doesn't want to show his face after that display for a while, and he most definitely has no idea of how he'll face Alfred after this.

Arthur could never know, not by a long shot, that Alfred's words to him would be the last he'd ever hear for a long time. The last words from _his_ Alfred.

As he turns his key in the lock to his door, he's met with an aroma of leather and ashes, polished wood and decaying flowers, and an underlying scent of blood—all this attests to the fact that he is _not_ in his home. Startled, he turns around to try and jar himself, figuring he's tired. When he does so, he finds can no longer see London behind a filter of rain, instead faced with a lavish hallway that stretches behind him and the room he is currently standing in. Utterly confused, Arthur tries to calm himself.

"Alright... just a vision... just a vision.."

Yet when he opens his eyes, he's still there—blood still pungent to his senses as his eyes flicker around the room. A map so large it's ostentatious hangs on the far wall above the mantle of the fireplace, a thick mass of navy blue and sharp red dominating most of the map. Arthur draws nearer to it, and what he reads makes his blood chill in a matter of seconds.

"...The Empires of the United States and the Soviet Union...?"

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**A/N:** Okay, so obviously the next few chapters are going to be where Arthur is interacting with Empire!America, and broken!England is interacting with Alfred, so keep in mind the names. Sorry for any confusion. There really is no better way to refer to them than this. XD The next chapter might come a little slower due to an abundance of grad parties I have to attend... So sorry in advance!


	3. Arthur

**A/N: **Ah, I am sorry it took me so long to update! I am so busy this month so I will do my best to keep updating regularly. I want to thank you all for all the feedback. My RP partner and I are really happy you are enjoying it so far and we are flattered by the positive reviews. So thank you, and enjoy this next part!

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Arthur scans his eyes over the map, features frozen in horror.

_Wh-What on earth? Is this some sort of sick joke?_

He did not recognize the room he was in, and the vast puddle of blood near his boots was by no means a laughing matter. If this set-up was indeed a prank of sorts, it was blatantly cruel. The only other nations he knew—or at least had seen—that possessed the magic to form such a portal were Lukas and Traian. However, there was no reason for either of them to pull any trick on him of this degree, so why...?

The doors slam open before he can make sense of anything. Arthur jerks, spinning around with his hand held out in front of him, both reflexively and prepped to fire off a spell.

"St-Stay back—!" he cuts off when he sees... Alfred, or at least it _looks_ like him. Yet _this_ Alfred is embellished in a white suit, crisp and pristine save for the blood smearing it in abstract patterns, a few hand-prints dragging down his waist as if they were begging for mercy. Arthur's stomach sinks before he can even raise his eyes to meet those of the other.

"Alfred...," he begins, attempting to keep the horror in his voice from keeping it steady. "What the hell are you doing?"

What Arthur refers to as Alfred doesn't pay him any heed, needing only to take a few strides before Arthur can feel his short, angry breathing ghost along his neck. Arthur squares his shoulders, his eyes narrowing. Arthur attempts to assess the other, eyes lifting to match his gaze as a callous hand wrenches in his hair. He emits a noise that he hoped would be angry, although it is strangled by shock. Alfred would never do something like this to him, would he? Alfred's doppelganger quickly throws him to the floor with what seems to be a lack of thought or effort. It comes without surprise that Arthur is unprepared for such an action as he falls, unable to stop the back of his skull from slamming against the wood floor and coating his locks in a layer of crimson. His hand brushes out, collecting the substance on his fingertips, Arthur realizing he had been tossed directly into the blood pooled along the floor. This sends a ripple of shivers to flutter along his limbs, as the notion that he is _lying in someone's blood _is utterly revolting, no matter how much carnage he had seen in his lifetime—no one in their right mind finds dousing their hair in blood to be acceptable. Even more disgusting would be the fact that "Alfred" had just thrown him.

_Wait._

Arthur looks up at the bloodied figure towering over him with a stance that Arthur had seen in wars past. The victor leaning over their prisoner, predator and prey... It could be swapped for any two opposites. All that mattered is the way their positions made him feel like he was submitting to something he hadn't the faintest idea of, something he was about to right rather quickly with whatever it took.

Gaze sharp, Arthur lifts his head further with every intent of boring a glaring hole through his attacker's face—or at least, he hoped too. The lack of light in the eyes of the other only startle Arthur, his gaze slipping. This wasn't Alfred. It wasn't _his_ Alfred.

If that was the case, he didn't even want to know who this was.

"And who, pray tell, gave you permission to _stand up_?"

The voice that echoes around the library is sharp, much lower and possessing a bold authority that Arthur had rarely ever heard the Alfred he had grown alongside use. His every thought centers around the fact he has to get up and get his bearings before attempting to battle this version of Al—America. He refused to refer to whatever copy this was with so intimate a name as the Alfred he knew.

Arthur scoots away, bumping into a spellbook on the ground, one he is indeed very familiar with. He doesn't have much time to examine it or question how it had gotten here, much less anything else that was wrong in this situation—which was nearly everything. Trying to draw his eyes away from the book, Arthur is unable to block the boot that comes down harshly against his back, forcing him to stay down on the ground.

Above him, America laughs gleefully, a completely dark and twisted sound.

"Oh, now I get it. You aren't my little pet, are you? No, my little pet is obedient, he would never think of so blatantly defying me... Though apparently, he isn't as obedient as I thought he was, sneaking away and leaving an alternate version of himself in his place. I'll have to be sure to punish him when he gets back," he rattles off, laughter making the room feel like it has become submerged in an icy darkness. "Oh, but for now I suppose I can just have my fun playing with you instead. You won't mind, right?"

His tone is so obviously taunting, mocking Arthur along with the grin on his face. Arthur barely has time to piece together the details of what had occurred. Another him? Another him had swapped places? Arthur's eyes widen, realizing exactly where he is. He had crossed over into a parallel world, one where everything had gone very, very wrong.

"You stupid bastard!" he yells, right as the words "punish" and "pet" finally connect in his brain. "You're completely insane! You were..."

_...No. No no no no no._

The circumstances all come full circle. The cause for America's predatory grin... Arthur looks skyward at the map hanging above his head—the United Kingdom is shaded in an overbearing navy that causes his entire body to give an involuntary shudder. Arthur close his eyes, repeating phrases of denial in his head. How in the hell had this gotten so bad? And why _him_? Why had he been the one to switch? Was his other self that incapable of fighting back? Had he become that weak?

"You never did mind, no matter what I did to you," America muses, choosing to disregard anything Arthur had said. "After all, you _love_ me, right? And you want me to be happy, right? You'd do anything to make sure I'm happy, right?"

Arthur's head snaps up at America's mockery. Love? When had he ever said anything about that? There's a gnawing recognition in the back of his mind, Arthur trying to push it back as far as he can. Was that why he had gotten so upset earlier? Of course not! How silly an idea such as... His cheeks sting with a shamed heat, and he glances away. America's tone only irritates him more, and he meets his eyes with an acidic glare.

"_Anything_," America continues. "Including letting me do as I please to you. Like this..."

"Shut your mouth, you insolent—!"

Arthur is picked up as if he weighs next to nothing, tossed against a bookshelf without much of a chance to defend himself. He growls, trying to shake off the pain long enough to clear his head and make way for a useful spell to come to mind.

"...Or this..."

America roughly kicks him across the entire room, Arthur's rough landing inciting frenzied yelps and cries to fall from his lips in torment, the pain attacking his body from every angle. He shudders in the reprieve. The _strength_ that America possesses in this world is ten-fold of what he has back home from all this big-headed sense of power.

Arthur is about to launch a fire spell from his lips as he struggles to sit up, an iron grip clamping down around his neck before he has the chance. He kicks, vying for air, a breath, for _anything_ as he claws, lifted off of the ground by hands awash in blood.

"...Or anything that I feel like doing to you," America finishes with a malicious grin. "And you have no one to blame for this but yourself—or rather, the 'you' from this universe, who selfishly threw you in his place. Not that it matters much to me, since this just means I have a brand new toy to break in."

As America speaks, Arthur's vision grows narrower, all he can hear being the blood slowing in his ears... His only sight that of America's cruel grin, blurred by him fading away.

"Incen...," Arthur chokes out, the last of the spell on the tip of his tongue. His breath whittles away to nothing, Arthur about to pass out as he's promptly released. He crumples to the floor in a piled heap, forcing air into his starved lungs, gasping for any semblance of breath he had. America only watches Arthur seek air through his nearly crushed windpipe in disturbing satisfaction, his desperate coughing making his grin grow wider and wider.

He isn't quite done with Arthur, his polished boot stomping down on Arthur's head. Arthur's cheek bone slams into the wood floor, denting the bone in as it blossoms with new-found pain. Arthur cries out, attempting a to scramble towards his spellbook in a last-ditch effort.

_Have to get out, have to get out. This isn't real, this isn't bloody real! He's not my Alfred... Not the one that I—!_

"I wonder, will you put up more of a fight than your other self did? Or will you submit as easily as he did?" America contemplates, smashing Arthur's face further into the floor. "Because as much as I love my pets to be obedient, having them act out of line in defiance every now and again can be pretty fun too. So which will it be, pet? Will we do this the easy way, or the hard way? Oh, I _do_ hope you choose the hard way! The hard way is always so much more fun!"

Arthur's face is pressed down even further, Arthur biting back a cry while struggling to lift his head up. Blood spills from his nose and he sends a defiant look to America.

"How dare you speak to me this way!"

As the words leave his lips, he feels a sense of déjà vu overtake him. He simply ignores it, pressing on as America's expression falters a little, watching him critically.

"You _idiot_! How many times did I tell you that being an empire was a foolish, foolish mistake? All those ideas of grandeur? You'll be hated for it! It will drive you mad..," he pauses. "In your case, it already has. Look what it has done to you! I don't even pertain to this world, and even I can see that you have become... become..."

He can't complete his sentence, too fearful to finish as his words catch in his throat. He doesn't want to admit that Alfred, so kind and gentle, could ever turn into such a monster. He can't. Someone he cares about—dare he say someone he loves—can't just change like that. He clenches his teeth in response to America's offer.

"I am not going to surrender to you—you are just a falsity to me. I will get out of here."

This seems to only delight America further, responding to Arthur's attempts at defiance with a harsh laugh.

"How dare _I_ speak to _you_ this way? I don't believe you fully understand your position right now, do you? There may indeed be another world out there in which you're the United Kingdom, England, Britain, or whatever other name you wish to call yourself, but here? Here you're none of those. Here you're Albion—weak, pathetic little Albion who will always be ruled over, who will never be his own nation. You are my pet, my toy, my _possession_. You have no right to speak without permission...," he says, pressing his foot down on Arthur's head even harder before grinning maliciously. "...Even if I _do_ agree with you. Yes, I am hated, and I suppose that I'm quite mad too—but that's what makes this all the more fun. I was never truly respected until I showed the world the power I possessed. And now? Now everyone respects me, everyone fears me, everyone reveres me! People don't address me as 'idiot.' they address me as 'Master.' People don't talk down to me, _I_ talk down to _them._ People don't laugh at my ideas, people hang on to every word I say! And of course, those who choose not to 'cooperate' are silenced. Permanently."

_Albion? Pet? P-Possession? The way he said it... Is this world's version of myself really that deprived of any semblance of freedom?_

Arthur's eyes flicker dangerously, attempting to offer another defiant retort, when America grinds his head into the floor much further than before. He grits his teeth, crying out and struggling to push himself off the ground.

"Sometimes they're even lucky enough to be silenced by my own hand."

America punctuates such a statement with another laugh, taking his boot off of Arthur's head. He doesn't allow Arthur to sit up, instead lifting him up savagely by his hair.

"You're not going to surrender to me? Hmm, where have I heard those words before...," he pauses in order to pretend to think before grinning. "Ah, yes, now I remember—those were your exact words to me when I first became an empire. Ah, but of course, someone as _weak_ and _pathetic_ as you is all bark and no bite. You quickly learned your place, like the obedient little pet you are. If I managed to make you into my pet once, I have no doubts that I can do it again, in half the time, even."

Arthur tries in vain to clamp down on any other pathetic noise that may escape his throat, but America's nails dig harshly into his scalp and the pain is absolutely unbearable. Arthur is unaware he had screamed at all until he feels the raw sensation in his throat. The blow to his ego makes him see red, Arthur twisting and gritting his teeth to attempt to free himself. He kicks out harshly, limbs trembling. America only laughs, the hit barely doing anything to deter him from his objective as he lifts Arthur even higher by his hair until his feet aren't even touching the ground.

Barely able to see straight, Arthur manages a glimpse of America's eyes, both manic and twisted... Yet there is still a hint of love and desire in those eyes, in that expression tainted with power and corruption and paranoia. Both Arthur and America know for sure that it's these feelings that America still possesses in part that will break down Arthur the quickest. Both of them are also very aware that Arthur will have a rough time fighting America as long as he shared Alfred's face.

The odds were not turning out in his favor at all.

"Go ahead, Albion! Fight, struggle, continue to defy me—your struggling will just make breaking you down that much sweeter. But don't worry, that defiant attitude of yours won't last very long, you'll see! In just a few days... No, a few hours, you'll be just like the Albion of this world. An obedient little pet, my favorite toy to play with, my most prized possession."

America's words frighten him because he knows—this is no dream. This is no vision. This America, while he may not be Arthur's, is every bit as real to him. Real to the inhabitants of this world. America lifts him higher, and Arthur knows—he knows he's not going to get out of here. Not for a _long _time. The way America's eyes glint with that childish delight demonstrates his knowledge that something new and shiny is being pressed into his hands, and that he can do as he pleases with it... That he won't fail to pay special attention to it because it's his favorite—no matter what the definition of favorite may be. Arthur struggles at his words, kicking and trying to pry America's hands off of him. When his hair is pulled harder and America says that he's going to break him in mere _hours_... Arthur can't help it, all of his frustrations pent up with an overwhelming sensation of pain. He screams into the expanse of the library, his voice echoing sadly up and down the halls of America's manor.

America takes this as his chance while Arthur is still hopelessly discouraged, humming to himself with a wickedly gleeful expression on his face as he casually begins to drag Arthur by his hair out of the library and down the hall. Arthur has no idea as to the layout of this manor, but wherever America was taking him with such an entertained disposition was a horrid sign indeed. His throat is scratchy from his yelling, but he pushes himself to find his voice once more.

"A-America, stop! Stop it! Can't you see that my other self still bloody cares for you?" he hisses through clenched teeth, pain smothering his words. "He doesn't want to see you like this... A monster! The thought alone of you becoming... _This_!"

He's thrown roughly into a room awash in dim lighting, shrouding most of the details from Arthur's gaze. He scrambles to right himself on his hands and knees, figuring that he could possibly slip past America's brute strength just as the door gives a resounding click from behind him. America had locked them both in.

_If I can catch him off guard, I can fire a spell and then unlock the door with another..._

He's snatched up before he can move, and Arthur gives everything he has in his struggle—kicking and attempting to punch America as both of his wrists are encircled by thick metal shackles above him. The same is done around his ankles, pulling his limbs taut into the shape of a saltire. Arthur focus all he can into an unlocking spell, only able to emit a few syllables before there's a searing pain encircling his wrists. He thrashes in response.

"You...!"

America circles him, voice laced with mirth. "Yes, me. I'm not a fool, Arthur. I know very well that you have magic, just as my pet did... Or rather he does, since he used it to disobey. He never had the gall to use it in defiance for a long time," America says, leaning near Arthur's ear. He taps the shackle around his left wrist playfully. "I wouldn't keep casting off spells unless you want the flesh around your wrist to burn. The symbols engraved on here that cancel your magic have held for years—they aren't going away anytime soon."

The chains are pulled even tighter, Arthur biting down on his lip harshly as his face drains of color. Any chance of escape had been eliminated so long as he was like this. Arthur's eyes are borderline frantic when America steps back into view, admiring Arthur's confines.

"There we go, all set! Now for the fun stuff! Hmm, let's see... How should I start off? Oh, I know!"

The room is just lit enough for Arthur to see America rummage through a box set to the side, taking out a large nail with a grin. America hums to himself and walks over to a corner that Arthur cannot strain his eyes enough to see.

"D-Damn it, America! Stop!" he pleads. "You don't want to... You don't have to do this. I can bloody _help_ you!"

America leans back, a fiery glow surrounding the nail and illuminating America's face in a way that causes Arthur to shudder. As America draws nearer, Arthur can feel a heat radiating off the nail in his grasp, and the fact that he had doused it in flames for a gruesome purpose is starting to break through Arthur's denial that America would hurt him further than this. Arthur pales, trying to inch away, the chains halting his movements with a punctuating clink. He steels his gaze despite his overwhelming fear. If America was testing him, he damn sure wasn't going to give him any satisfaction before he made a move.

"Ah, it's been so long since I've gotten to do this. I wonder if you'll scream just as much as this world's Albion did," America says, grabbing Arthur's shirt without any hesitation and ripping it off of his body. He tosses the ripped shirt to the ground carelessly before readying the nail, holding it like one would hold a pen. "Now then, I'd suggest staying still. If I mess up, then I'll just have to cross out my mistakes and fix them, you know."

The nail draws nearer to his chest, Arthur beginning to lose his defiant air.

"No... No no no... America... D-Don't—!"

Without any further warning, America began to carve straight onto Arthur's chest. All that escapes Arthur's mouth belongs to violent screams, screams so raw they tear his throat apart. The pain... Oh the pain. The smell of flesh—his flesh—is so terribly nauseating that he has to fight himself amongst his tortured daze not to retch. America carves something deliberate onto his chest with defined lines that Arthur can still discern as letters, Arthur unable to decipher what was written.

"Oh, look, look, your blood is exactly like my pet's! It looks like it won't be too hard for me to adjust to having a new pet after all," America speaks from somewhere around him with vicious laughter, Arthur realizing he had shut his eyes somewhere amongst the mutilating.

The nail is finally pulled away and its torment is replaced by the tension exerted on his limbs growing stronger, his arms pulling harshly away from his body so they're nearly popping out of their sockets.

"Damn it, just stop!" he screams, unwilling to beg just yet as a veil of moisture begins to blur his vision. There's not one inch of his body that's safe... Not one inch that isn't screaming for escape.

There's a sickening crack that draws Arthur's head up, America standing in front of Arthur with a thick whip. There's a horrid look on his face—it makes Arthur want to plead for death and be done with all this.

"Time to have some fun. Are you ready, my little pet?" America calls, cracking the whip again as his eyes gleam maniacally.

Arthur opens his mouth to offer a protest, to perhaps beg to be released with the knowledge that this was only the beginning, but the whip is brought down on his flesh with a scream in hot pursuit.

Outside the room, all one would hear is the cracking of the whip flanked by anguished cries. The definite sound doesn't falter as the sound of the whip tearing flesh apart and spilling blood becomes more rhythmic. In the same instant on that stormy morning, the canary outside of the manor breaks free of its cage, fluttering away. A tiny sparrow is put in its place, wing broken by the caretaker to keep it from ever hoping of escape. All the rest of the birds scattered about the outskirts of the manor take flight to the sound of a final bone-chilling scream that fills the air.

The manor falls deathly quiet for once in a long while.

* * *

**A/N: **Alright, this is the last you're going to hear from Arthur for a bit. The next chapter switches perspectives, so you'll get to see what's going on with Alfred.

If you're wondering what America wrote onto Arthur's chest, you'll find that out later on in the story! Oh, and for clarification, Lukas is Norway and Traian is Romania. The Magic Trio!


	4. Alfred

**AN: **Sorry for the delay orz I am very busy on my end but I will do my best to keep up with this fic. Enjoy! This takes place with Alfred and England.

* * *

One week. It's been one week since anyone has heard from Arthur—no phone calls have been able to go through to Arthur's house, nor has anyone been able to even step foot on Arthur's property before being repelled, one could say, from the premises by something no one could see nor understand. They all accepted it as Arthur still being upset over Alfred's harsh words, and the meeting place had been moved to France instead so that they could continue what remained of it, even if it was without Arthur's presence. The only person who was close to Arthur and hadn't made any attempts to get through to him is the person who was responsible for Arthur's depression in the first place. Yet after an entire week of not hearing anything from Arthur, even Alfred had to admit that he was getting worried sick.

So, deciding to finally swallow his pride, he takes a trip to Arthur's house, fully prepared to be forced away by whatever didn't let everyone else in... Except he's able to make it all the way to the front door without any sort of resistance whatsoever. Of course, at this point he has no way of knowing that it was actually Arthur's fairies that were keeping everyone away. He also has no idea that the fairies decided that they could let Alfred in, if only because he seemed to be honestly willing to apologize, and because they honestly thought that, in the state that Arthur is in currently, Alfred would be the only one that would be willing and able to help.

He lifts a flowerpot near the door, moving the loose brick underneath it to reveal a key, which he takes to let himself into Arthur's house. The door opens with a heavy click, causing his heart to thud. He finds it ridiculous that he's nervous at all—he's just here to apologize. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he sets a foot down on the hardwood flooring of the foyer.

The first thing that he notices upon entering Arthur's house is that all of the lights are off. He shivers, getting the feeling that someone—or something, though he cannot say what—is watching him, but he quickly shakes off the feeling.

"Yo, Artie, you here or what?" Alfred calls, pausing to wait for any sort of reply. It's only after a few moments of holding his breath that he tries again to call for Arthur, refusing to take another step before he does so.

His voice echoes off the beams running across the ceiling, an odd fluttering noise accompanying him from every angle. Alfred whirls, trying to catch sight of whatever seemed to be circling him, wondering if Arthur was playing games with him to be cruel in return. He can't see where the light switch is with it so dark in here, and in his unnerved state he doesn't even remember where it was located. Frowning, Alfred decides to just walk further into the house, glancing around for any signs of Arthur. He makes it all the way to Arthur's bedroom before he finally hears some semblance of noise.

_That sounds like...crying? No, something else...but whatever it is, it doesn't sound good...did something bad happen to Arthur?_ He gets worried for a second, before shaking his head. _N-No, he's probably...probably just still upset about what I said... I've just gotta apologize to him and everything will be fine...that's all..._

Alfred tentatively opens the door, peeking inside, and immediately notices the figure huddled up on the floor in the corner. He flips the light on and the figure flinches and curls up into himself further. He blinks past the brightness, bringing his hand up to shield his eyes. It takes Alfred a minute to realize that the vulnerable person curled up on the floor is Arthur, and it takes him another minute to realize that there is something very, _very_ wrong with him—more wrong than just him being upset over Alfred's words. Alfred quickly rushes towards him, too concerned to be apprehensive about approaching Arthur.

"Artie! Dude, what happened, are you—?" He cuts himself off and freezes in his tracks as Arthur recoils away from him, whimpering. "...A-Artie? Wha... D-Dude, what the hell...i-it's me, it's _Alfred_... Why are you acting like this?"

He moves forward towards Arthur again, this time moving a bit more slowly. Yet even just these movements seem to be enough to make Arthur continue to freak out, shaking and muttering something under his breath.

"Artie, what are y—?"

His breath catches in his throat, eyes widening as he catches bits of Arthur's mumbled words. He leans as close as Arthur will allow him too without flinching, picking out two words: "sorry" and "master", more shockingly. Frustrated by not knowing what the hell is going on, Alfred ignores the way Arthur tries to scramble away from him as he quickly moves forward towards him, dropping down to his knees right in front of Arthur's shaking form. That's all it takes to see it... The wounds, the bruises, the marks, the collar with a leash attached to it—oh God, how the hell did he not notice something like that sooner—the fear, the pure terror in Arthur's expression, in his stance. It wasn't a fear of something general... No, it most certainly was not. To test his theory, Alfred swallows hard, reaching out to gently touch Arthur's face. As suspected, Arthur panics and tries to scramble further away from him, and Alfred is forced to realize it: Arthur is afraid of _him_. He doesn't even realize that tears have started running down his face until he finds himself talking around a lump in his throat.

"...A-Artie... What... W-What the hell happened to you...?"

Arthur curls up tightly in on himself, the lights flickering as Alfred draws nearer. He begins to speak, and although it is soft whispers, Alfred can make out what he's saying... When he does, he almost wishes he hadn't.

"Please. Please. Please. Please don't beat me. Please don't beat me. I'm so sorry, Master. I love you. I'll never defy you again," he mumbles. "Please don't beat me... Please don't beat me..." Tears spill down his cheeks and he sobs harder, clutching for himself. He doesn't meet Alfred's eyes, flinching away from his attempted reassuring touch.

"Master please... I'm so sorry, Master. I won't ever do it again, please! Please.. Please don't beat me today.. I'm so sorry!" he sobs, trembling. The leash moves, jingling the ring on the collar, the only noise in the room besides his sobs. He backs away, eyes terrified as they stay trained on the carpeting. "...F-Forgive me. Please. Please. I'll never do it again."

Alfred feels as if his heart is breaking right in front of him, and he does his best to push back his tears at the sight of the state that Arthur is in.

"...A-Artie... A-Arthur please, c-calm down... J-Just tell me what the hell happened to you! W-Who did this to you, w-why are you wearing a...a collar and leash? A-And why are you... W-Why...?" It nearly makes Alfred want to throw up having to ask this next question, but he forces himself to ask it regardless, needing to know the answer. "...W-Why do you keep calling me 'Master'?"

He shudders as the word leaves his lips—it feels so _wrong_. Even though he still has no clue why Arthur is in this state, he feels the desperate need to at least try and show him that he's not going to hurt him, so he very gently reaches out to Arthur again, touching his fingertips to Arthur's cheek as softly as he can.

"...L-Look, Artie...I...I don't know what's going on, but I'm not going to hurt you..." A small sob slips out and he squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head slightly before opening his eyes again and attempting to speak in a less choked-up voice. "...Please, please believe me. I would never want to hurt you Arthur, _never_..."

He lightly traces his fingertips along Arthur's cheek, wiping away Arthur's tears as gently as he can, before deciding to take a chance and move a bit closer to Arthur, trying his best to keep his overall demeanor as non-threatening as possible. Arthur shakes even harder at this, still refusing to meet his eyes. The hand caressing his cheek only causes him to flinch, closing his eyes. He nearly gasps out in surprise, whimpering and demonstrating that something was so very wrong with Arthur, something Alfred didn't know how to fix. He cups his cheek more gently, and Arthur doesn't move away, but he trembles violently and struggles to avoid flinching. Alfred dabs at his tears again, and Arthur bites viciously at his lip.

"Please, let me help you... I can't stand seeing you like this. Not you, especially not you. Please..."

Arthur doesn't cease to shake, but he does find it in him to speak. He answers simply, as if these statements have been rehearsed. "...I am property. Property cannot own anything. I am your property Master. I am your toy, your pet. You do with me as you wish—this collar shows everyone in the empire that I am yours, that I can only be touched by you unless you say otherwise." He swallows at that, squeezing his eyes shut and continuing to shake. "I'm Albion, Master. I'm pathetic, and useless, and weak, and I am so eternally grateful to you for putting up with me."

There's a pause as he remembers the second question from before, answering dutifully. "...I do not understand, Master. I have... I have always called you this. I belong to you after all—I shouldn't need to refer to you with anything other than respect and loyalty." He dips his head lower, as if in submission. "Master, I am so very sorry for crying. I'm so very sorry. I... I'm so very sorry for speaking out of line—I won't do it again. I just... Please...," he begs. "I don't want to be beaten today. I'll be good. I can be a good pet, just like you wanted. S-See?" He fumbles for the leash, pressing it into his Alfred's hands.

Alfred feels physically ill, just barely able to repress the urge to run to the bathroom and throw up from how badly everything Arthur is saying is affecting him. Property? Toy? Pet? Empire? Albion? Master? All of these words floated around in his head, leaving him momentarily lost for words, but when Arthur tries to press the leash into his hands, he snaps out of his shocked state, a sob slipping out before he can hold it back.

"Arthur, I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about! You're no one's property, no one's toy, no one's pet! You're Arthur Kirkland, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland!"

The sad version of the Arthur in front of him shakes his head, clutching at his ears as he screws his eyes shut.

"No! You're lying!" he yells. "I don't have a name... I don't have a name but Albion, and I don't even deserve—!"

Alfred shakily reaches out and fumbles with the collar around Arthur's neck as gently as he can until it comes off, before he throw it to the side along with the leash that's attached. Arthur goes to continue his tirade, breaking off with a gasp. His hands flutter to his neck, feeling the raw skin around his throat. Alfred notices the scarring there, wondering just how long whoever had taken Arthur had made him wear such a thing. Arthur pulls the collar of his navy blue uniform—something else wrong with this picture—up further, as if trying to compensate for the lack of the collar. Alfred looks harder, tracing the angry red lines infringing on a large ringed bruise around his neck, the width the same size as the collar.

"T-There! That stupid thing is gone, now start acting normal!" Tears continue to roll down Alfred's cheeks. "Please...I don't even know what to say, what do do that will calm you down and make you trust me. B-But please, Arthur, at least give me a chance. I swear I'm not going to hurt you..."

He once again reaches out for Arthur, gently wiping away the tears on Arthur's face while attempting to ignore his own.

Arthur's eyes slowly, slowly, lift up at that to settle on Alfred's chest. As he does so, his eyes swell with tears. He wills his gaze up a little further, past Alfred's collar, past his neck, up to his cheeks, finishing with a terrified gaze into his eyes. He lets out a little cry, covering his mouth with his hand as he sobs.

"It can't be. It can't be!" he cries, trembling. "...A-Are you... Are you... A-Alfred...?" He inches away from him, clutching at his arms, shivering from the chill that has set in the room.

Alfred sees Arthur—was it even Arthur?—start to shake even more violently than before, his voice filled with so much fear that Alfred feels his heart clenching in pain inside his chest.

"I...O-Of course I'm Alfred! Who else would I be?" He wants nothing more than to pull Arthur back towards him, but he knows that he shouldn't make any sudden moves, not wanting to make Arthur any more scared of him than he already seems to be.

"It can't be... Did I escape..?" he mumbles to himself, eyes find their way to the floor again.

Arthur's murmured question catches him off-guard, and he blinks in surprise. "...Escape? Escape from where?"

Not answering him, Arthur's eyes flicker to the collar, then up to a map framed near a dresser. Alfred watches this action carefully, confused as Arthur's breath seems to catch in his throat as he swallows hard, still having a hard time meeting Alfred's eyes. He focuses on Alfred's jacket. Alfred nearly peels it off and wraps it around Arthur, deciding that deliberate movements like that would only send him into another frenzy. Arthur closes his eyes, pained tears spilling down his cheeks as he shakes.

"A-America isn't an Empire?" he asks, voice so soft it's barely audible.

Alfred sees Arthur's lips move, and it takes a second or two for the almost impossibly quiet words to reach Alfred's ears. Once they do, he wishes that they didn't, because he suddenly finds himself feeling nauseous all over again.

"E-Empire? Hell no! An empire is way too much work, dude... And weren't you the one who always told me that it's better not to be an empire?"

This causes Arthur to breathe out deeply, his shaking ceasing only slightly. His eyes flicker up to land on Alfred's, him having to grit his teeth to keep his shaky resolve. His irises, snubbed of anything but a wallowing torture and despair, lock onto Alfred's teary blues, still vibrant. Alfred is grateful to see Arthur's eyes finally moving up and locking with his own if only briefly, though he can't stand the look of fear and hopelessness and sadness and everything that he never wanted to see in Arthur's eyes.

_Not again, I swore I'd never let him have that look in his eyes again, not after that day, I never wanted to see that look again, and now, now..._ He watches as Arthur's eyes flicker away from his own once more and move to stare down. _He's still staring at me, so that's a good thing, right?_

"...Y-You don't... I'm not your pet?" Arthur asks. "Then this is... This must be before the Cold War?" A puzzled expression sets into his features as he rubs his arms for warmth, pressing into the wall for comfort. His eyes linger onto Alfred's hands.

His own expression twists into horror and revulsion at Arthur's response. "P-Pet? N-No! Nonononono! That's just... D-Dude, that's just fucking sick!" His expression then fades into a perplexed one that practically mirrors Arthur's own confusion. "_Before_? Dude, the Cold War ended, like, twenty years ago! You know that!" He frowns. "What's with bringing up the Cold War all of a sudden?"

The man in front of him that seems to only _look_ like Arthur only seems more confused, raising his eyes slightly before biting his lip and keeping them down.

"...Th-Then, if you aren't my Master, and this isn't the Cold War... Then where are we? And w-why aren't you an empire? Y-You took over the United Kingdom—you told my brothers you would leave them be if they handed me over when I went into hiding, and then... You..." He breaks off, not able to raise his head. "A-After the Cold War, you and the Soviet Union built up two Empires in the West and the East. You two control the balance of power in the world, coinciding..." He swallows hard, as if he is having to to painfully review his speech for coherency.

Alfred is about to say something, him finding himself shaking his head as Arthur speaks up once more. Before Alfred knows it, Arthur is talking freely, eyes trained on the ground. He avoids his usual clipped sentences, adding a flourish of "Master" only occasionally as he explains how America took crushing control, becoming the Commander of the military government of the United States, taking on the title of Emperor. He goes further, detailing how _America—_he doesn't say Alfred, but America whenever he does not say "Master"—took control of Canada, how his brother was defiant and pleading America to just stop this already, that the buildup of an Empire would only bring doom. He had never heard back from Canada ever again—although he had only seen him once, brief in passing. A small room he was never supposed to see... Canada's once vibrant eyes turned a dull color, him lying on his side. If it weren't for the lack of decay on his skin, he would have said he had passed on. It was a fate they all desired once under America's control. America moved into South America from there, through the Caribbean, and finally to the United Kingdom. He said he had warned America. He had tried, but America had used violence against him, denying all feelings that England professed—even his own. He had become something dark... Something burning inside him ever since the arms race of the Cold War. When whoever was sitting in front of Alfred had escaped for a brief period of time—when he still had strength, his own free will, his defiance—America had come for him. And that's when the beatings started, the torture, the mocking, the humiliation and violation...

There's a break here in his story, him trembling so hard Alfred feels like his bones will rattle apart. He opens his mouth to continue, describing how America began stretching his Empire from Africa to parts of Asia that didn't belong to the Soviet Union. The Nordics made a treaty for neutrality, as well as certain Kingdoms in the European continent. The other nations—France, Germany, Spain, the more rude Italian brother, Belgium, Netherlands, Prussia, Switzerland and Liechtenstein... There were more of them than that... They had created a resistance force, the rebels. America had been plagued by their existence ever since, desperately trying to crush them—it consumed his very life, his very light, slowly eradicating whatever care still lingered in his heart—any part of him that still loved him slowly dying away. He recites his story of the spell-book, how he read a spell that seemed like an escape, of how he ended up here... When he is finished, both he and Alfred are aware that he has subconsciously moved closer to Alfred. He quickly draws back in on himself and bites his lip, awaiting a form of punishment.

Alfred, for his credit, sits and listens in muted shock as the words tumble out of Arthur's—no, not Arthur, this isn't Arthur, this isn't _his _Arthur—out of _England's_ mouth, telling of an alternate history that did not happen, that he knows did not happen. Yet everything is described with such detail, with such clarity, that Alfred can picture it all in his mind's eye... All of it, except for the part with the center of this cyclone of torture being him.

_I would never... S-Sure, I got a little...excitable during the Cold War, but I would never... _

He almost feels...detached, as he's listening to all of this, like how one feels when they're being read a story: You can picture the setting, the characters, the events, everything, but in the end, you still know that it's just a story, and that the spell over you will be broken once the words stop. And just like that, once England stops speaking, the spell his words have over Alfred breaks as well, and he begins to realize that he's been shaking and crying for... He doesn't even know how long. He's also dimly aware of the fact that England had moved a bit closer to him while speaking, but he only realizes this once England suddenly moves back, fully breaking him out of his trance.

"...I... S-Shit, I don't know what to say to any of that. If I didn't see you here, like this, I never would've even believed something like this, b-but..." He shakes his head and shakily takes a breath, attempting to calm himself down. Alfred slowly reaches out a hand towards England, attempting to keep his demeanor as non-threatening as possible, though England still cowers slightly.

"...Listen to me. You're safe now, okay? None of that stuff happened. There are no empires here, okay? I'm not going to bore you with the details, but just take my word when I say that this. This world's history is nothing like yours after the Cold War. I... Fuck, I feel fucking sick just thinking that there's a monster with my face running around in that world of yours, because I would never do anything like that..." He gently cups England's cheek in his hand, ready to pull away if need be. England only flinches at the gesture, keeping his posture rigid. "See? I'm not going to hurt you... You're safe..."

He gently wipes his thumb across England's cheek, wiping away some of England's tears, and attempts to shift himself a little closer to England, not wanting to scare him by moving too close too fast. England's tears seem to melt away, caught on the surface of Alfred's thumb, causing England to bristle. He clenches his teeth at the movement.

"N-No. You don't have to do this for me. I know you think I'm weak. I am sorry for this... I don't even belong in this timeline. I'm not... I'm not the right England."

Alfred shakes his head, taking the fact that England hasn't entirely tried to move away from him as enough of a sign for him to move a little bit closer, continuing to keep his hand gently cupped around England's cheek as he gently wipes away every tear that glides down his pale skin.

"I don't think you're weak. Not at all. It's the opposite, really—I think you're so amazingly strong for being able to hold on for so long, for being able to think of a way to get out of there. And it doesn't matter that you're not the 'right' England—I can't stand to see you suffering, no matter what timeline you're from." He moves a little bit closer to England, and, hesitating only briefly, he leans forward and gently kisses England's forehead before pulling back, his face red but his expression soft and sincere. "Let me help you. Please."

As if he suddenly remembers himself, England pulls away, clenching his hands in his lap. He shakes his head like the kiss is burning his skin and he's attempting to dislodge it.

"Y-You don't u-understand. If I was strong, I'd be able to fight it. I wouldn't have to escape like a coward while he tortures others." He breaks off in a gasp. "I wouldn't have subjected another version of myself to t-this... this... torment... I..." The color drains from his face, realizing the gravity of the situation. "...I can't undo what I did. I can't. It was a mistake. I should have just accepted my fate unflinchingly and suffered. I am a bloody coward."

Alfred flinches, his eyes wide, blood running cold.

"...Another version? Y-You don't mean...? Shit, shit, shitshitshitshitshit! You've gotta get him back! Get him back here, please! You can both stay here, you don't have to go back there—no one deserves to have to suffer like that—but you can't let him stay there, please!"

He starts to feel nauseous again, the thought that someone with his face is torturing _his_ Arthur making him literally sick to his stomach.

"If you found a way to get here, then there's got to be a way to get back. You stay here, and send me back, I'll get Arthur myself, and then I'll come back here and you'll both be safe, okay? Because I don't care if you're not this world's Arthur, you're still _Arthur_, and like hell I'm going to just sit by and let someone torture you and make your life a living hell! Not you, not my Arthur, not _any_ Arthur of _any_ timeline!" His expression is determined, and he refuses to take no for an answer.

England closes in on himself at the way his words sound. He shakes violently once more, bringing his knees up to his chest. Alfred bites his lip, immediately regretting his reaction as he sees the way England starts to shake.

"I-I'm so s-sorry... I'm so sorry... Please...," he cries. "I'll go back to my own world, I p-promise!" At the suggestion of him staying here as well, his eyes lift wearily up to Alfred. "...It's much too dangerous! He'll find you out. I'll... I'll return to my world, and your Arthur will return here."

Alfred shakes his head, holding his hands up non-threateningly. "I-I'm sorry, I'm not mad, I swear, I'm just worried, that's all. And I don't care about being found out or whatever, I can take him on myself if need be! Even if I get my Arthur back, I won't be able to live with myself knowing that it was in exchange for you. I'd never be able to forgive myself if I just hand you over, just because you're not from this timeline. I can't do that. I won't do that." He wants to pull England into a hug, but he's worried that England might panic, so he gently places his hand on England's head, running his fingers through England's hair gently to try and make up for the wince on England's behalf. "I'll find a way to help you both. I don't know how, but I will. I'm the hero, it's my job to help people and take down the bad guys!" His smile falls slightly, expression darkening as he continues. "...Even if the bad guy is me."

England relaxes slightly, eyes moving up to study Alfred's face slightly before his gaze skitters away. "I-I could send you there but I need a spellbook. _My_ s-spellbook."

Alfred is starting to feel a little frustrated, not knowing what else he can do to make England calm down. "...Then we'll go down to the basement, I'm pretty sure that's where Artie keeps all of that stuff." He looks over England's shaking form once more before letting out a quiet sigh. "...Do you want me to stop? I'm trying to help you, but it feels like everything I'm trying is just making you even more scared. I don't wanna scare you, I just want you to know that you're safe with me, and that I'm not gonna hurt you."

England lifts his head. "I'm s-sorry. It's just that I haven't... No one has been so gentle with me in quite some time." He says the words as if they are burning at his throat. "I want to trust you. I do. If you were like _h-him_, you wouldn't be so selfless. I'm s-sorry. Please forgive me."

Alfred smiles and shakes his head. "No, don't apologize, it's my fault. I'm sorry, I should have figured as much..." His fingers had slowed their movements, but they never stopped. "But you didn't answer my question. Would you feel more comfortable if I were to stop touching you, and if I just gave you some space instead? Or do you want me to continue? Whatever you want is fine with me, okay? I'm not going to get angry either way or anything; I just want to help, that's all."

England bites his lip. "Can you... Can I..."

He reaches out his hands tentatively towards Alfred, his fingers gently brushing his jacket as they search for his hands. Alfred's smile widens a little at the action, him waiting as he lets England tentatively take his hand into his own, making sure to keep as relaxed as possible and not move a muscle until he's absolutely sure that England's seen what he needs. England turns his hands over and a ghost of a smile graces his face, releasing a breath out that sounds relieved. Tears sparkle at the corners of his eyes, obviously having found what he was looking for. He leans into Alfred's touch, exhaling shakily. Alfred finally realizes that they're getting somewhere, running a hand along England's back.

"N-No. I need to know I'm not back with _him_..." His shaking nearly ceases, and his eyes finally move up to linger on Alfred's face for more than a few seconds. "C-Can you help me down to the spellbook? I haven't walked very much and I'm weak on my feet—I was made to crawl most everywhere."

"I won't leave you, I promise," Alfred says, continuing to gently run his fingers through England's hair, happy to feel that England is finally starting to relax. He does his best not to let his displeasure and disgust at England's last words show in his expression. "Of course I can help. Do you want to try standing now, and I'll help you walk? Or do you want me to carry you downstairs instead? I don't want you to push yourself to try and walk if you're just going to end up hurting yourself."

His expression is filled with pure concern, patience, and affection, honestly wanting nothing more than to help this England, even if he isn't his Arthur. England slowly places his hand on the wall next to him, trying to use it to stand up. His legs are shaky and his stance is tentative, and he slowly sinks back down.

"I'm sorry. It's been a week since I have walked. C-Could you carry me?" he asks, biting his lip.

Alfred continues to smile patiently, impulsively leaning forward and giving England another quick kiss to his forehead. "You don't need to apologize."

He makes sure to move slowly and carefully, moving one of his arms to gently hook under England's legs and moving his other arm carefully around England's back before slowly—and very carefully—picking England up. He makes sure to keep his eyes on England for any signs of fear or discomfort.

"Are you alright? I'm not hurting you, am I?"

England's breath hitches in his throat as he is lifted, and he turns his face away. "I-I'm alright. Thank you." Tears spill down his cheeks at something Alfred can only guess is related to America's treatment of him.

Alfred frowns deeply at this, concerned at the tears that won't seem to stop. "Please don't cry... A-Are you sure you're alright? Because seriously, you can tell me, it's fine."

England shakes his head. "I'm fine. It's not about pain...not physical, anyway."

At that, Alfred gently pulls England a little closer to his chest, kissing the top of England's head without even really thinking—all he knows is that he's doing whatever he'd want Arthur to do for him if he was ever this freaked out, and hoping that it has the same affects on England as it would have on himself. England simply leans into Alfred's chest in response.

"I'm going to head downstairs now. Just tell me if you want me to stop, or put you down, or if you're in pain, or anything, alright?"

England nods at Alfred's request and closes his eyes, something that makes Alfred relax.

_Thank God..._

He continues to hold England gently against his chest, slowly beginning to walk towards the basement. He makes sure to keep his steps slow and steady so as not to jostle England and accidentally hurt him. When he reaches the basement door, he's surprised to find it very slightly ajar, as if someone had already opened it for him. He wasn't about to question his luck as he carefully opened the door the rest of the way with his foot, grateful that he didn't have to put England down. He starts to descend into the basement, obviously unnerved by having to go down into the place that he just knows is crawling with creepy supernatural stuff. He puts on a brave front regardless of his nervousness, reminding himself that this is for Arthur—for _both_ Arthurs.

"...M-My spellbook should be around here somewhere," England says, speaking up with his faint voice. "On one of the shelves over there, if memory serves me correct." He gestures to the far left wall, hidden in a shadow.

Alfred nods and heads in the direction that England points out without any hesitation, his desire to help both Arthur and England overriding his fear of the supernatural. He approaches the shelves and looks at them, frowning and squinting in the dim lighting.

"It's so hard to see anything down here. I wish there were some lights or something."

No sooner do these words leave his mouth than a few small balls of light appear, lighting up the area and nearly giving Alfred a heart attack, his eyes wide in both fear and awe.

"W-Well... T-That was...c-convenient," he stammers, gulping and smiling shakily. "S-So, uh, what'cha lookin' for, Artie? What's the book look like? Because there's a lot of different books here... And because I'd really prefer not staying down here longer than I have to..." He continues to eye the balls of light nervously, unable to logically figure out how they could even exist, let alone whether they're harmful or not.

England pauses, Alfred figuring he is trying to recall the qualities of the book.

"It's leather-bound, very thick...pages are crammed in it. The title cover has my handwriting on it. It's Latin, Alfred." He searches about the room, clinging to him. "Ah. I'm sorry. I forgot that you didn't...that you weren't so tolerant of the occult."

Alfred listens as England lists off the book's physical descriptions, immediately starting to scan the shelves. "Latin. Alright, that I can handle. If it were in some kinda gibberish language or whatever, I don't know how much help I'd be to you."

This does indeed make things easier for him, because there are books whose spines have letters that he's never seen before in his entire life written on them, so he at least knows that he can just skim right over those books. He glances back down at England, noticing his slight discomfort, remembering the last thing he had said.

"Nah, it's cool, don' worry about it. I can put up with it for a bit if it means I get to be of some help to you."

Alfred isn't used to being this open with his feelings towards Arthur, but he reasons that he's finding it easier because this is _England_, and because he knows that England needs as much patience and affection from him as he could possibly give.

England peeks around the shelf from his hold in Alfred's arms, trying to scan for the book. He spots it, reaching his hand out tentatively, keeping a hand clenched in Alfred's shirt in an iron grip. Alfred actually finds the way that England clenches his shirt in his hand and refuses to let go kind of endearing in its own way, and he's happy that England's already come to trust him this much.

"I think this is it."

Alfred moves slightly towards where England is reaching out to, glancing at the book along with him. England flips through it, hesitating on each page as if he's trying to teach himself the words again. When England stops at a certain spell, Alfred reads the title.

"_Inter a universi ad aliud_. Travel from one universe to another. Sounds right. You're sure this is the exact one you used?"

England shakes his head. "The one I used was a means of escape. It was by chance that I ended up here. With this spell, I can send you exactly where we wish for you to go. ...Can you carry me to the array in the center of the floor?"

Alfred frowns slightly at England's request, concerned. "You're not seriously going to try and pull this off now, are you? Shouldn't you try and get some rest or something first?"

"A-Alfred, if you don't want to get to your Arthur and find him broken beyond repair...bloodied and beaten, then we have no time. It doesn't matter. I've been lying on a floor for a week. I think I have enough power to transport you if I had enough power to transport myself after getting kicked by _him_."

Alfred bites his lip nervously, seeing England's point, but still worried nonetheless. "I know. I don't want anything to happen to my Arthur, but I don't want you to end up hurting yourself either, dammit." He reluctantly starts heading towards the spot that England pointed out earlier. "If you feel like it's too much, then I want you to stop, okay?" He's not even going to bother saying things like "magic doesn't exist" at this point, knowing that it's not exactly in his best interest right now to deny what's possibly the only thing that can get his Arthur back.

England smiles sadly, gently climbing out of Alfred's arms and kneeling on the floor, setting the spellbook down as he touches the chalk-drawn lines of the array. He places both of his palms down, taking a deep breath.

"Alfred. Don't ever give up your empathy. Don't ever stop caring about others. Don't ever stop being a hero, alright? Can you promise me that?"

As Alfred puts England down gently, he finds he is very reluctant to move away from him. He listens as England speaks, and he smiles determinedly, nodding.

"I promise."

England nods, satisfied at the answer. He begins to chant, a light pulsating from the array as a wind picks up around the room. Alfred watches in awe as England starts performing magic right before his eyes, slightly nervous and feeling completely out of his league-science he could handle, aliens he could handle, but magic? The only things he knows about magic come from fiction and from kid's magic shows, neither of which could be considered very reliable sources.

"Make sure you're inside the circle," England mutters in between his reading. "I'm going to finish the spell." His eyes meet Alfred's in warning as the light becomes blinding. "Make certain that you move as quick as you can, Alfred. You don't have very long before the magic runs out and you are sent back here. So make every moment count. And another thing."

Alfred glances down, making sure he's standing in the circle at England's prompting, before glancing back up and locking eyes with England. England's dim greens stare back at him, his expression solemn.

"If either of you die in that world, you are trapped in limbo forever."

A sense of dread and fear shoots through him as he listens to England's foreboding words. Alfred sets his lips determinedly as he nods.

"I'm not letting anyone die. The hero doesn't let anyone die. We're all getting out of there. You, me, and this world's Arthur."

England finishes the spell, the room going white as his voice lingers.

"Follow the light."

Alfred reflexively squeezes his eyes shut as he's blinded, suddenly feeling as if the ground is giving out on him as he's beginning to fall, and fall, and fall...

* * *

**AN: **I have a little bit of downtime this week so the next chapter may come sooner. Again, thank you very much for the feedback!


	5. Arthur and America

**A/N: **This will be a shorter chapter, but it's where things really pick up. Thank you so much again for all the feedback! It makes working on this worthwhile if others can enjoy it as much as we did.

Warning: There are graphic mentions of torture ahead. If that isn't your thing, er... don't make yourself read it, or read with caution...? One of the two! Or something...

* * *

Chains rattle to the floor, a body collapsing in a heap of blood and flayed skin.

Arthur lets out a hoarse scream as a variety of blades are dragged along his raw flesh, peeling away layers of his skin on his back after it was subjected to hours of whipping without any reprieve. He is going to be sick, dry heaving as a booted foot collides with his jaw, sending him crashing onto his side. He sobs, barely able to move a centimeter. His nails had been ripped out one by one, fingers broken and wrists snapped so he couldn't bear to struggle. America had shattered his kneecap with a hammer so—if by chance he broke free—he couldn't get very far.

Arthur just lies there, bloodied cheeks watered by his tears. Cuts and bruises litter his skin, him breathing out heavily. Each movement of his chest presses against the cracked bones of his damaged ribcage. Internal bleeding peeks out from under the tatters of his shirt.

America grins as he watches his new pet, his new toy, breaking right before his eyes, by his hand and his hand alone. He uses all of the methods of torture he could think of in one go, finding himself having more and more fun as each minute of this little game of his passes, his laughter occasionally mixing in with Arthur's screams. He moves toward a few water containers, filling up a rusted bucket from a container marked as salt-water. Arthur barely has the vision to see him, and therefore is unprepared as America turns the bucket over above him, soaking into his raw skin. He writhes further, if even possible in his state, giving a broken scream.

"Aw, come now. We don't want it to get infected, do we?" America puts on airs as if he is concerned for Arthur, although it is all mocking. It doesn't matter to Arthur—he has no energy to respond with a fiery retort.

Traveling away from Arthur's tortured form, America heads back to where he had lit the nail from before. He turns up the flames on a simple burner, whistling as he digs around for a hot poker. He dips it into the flames, letting them lick at the object until it glows against the darkness of the room. Holding it like it was the key to destroying the rebels, he navigates his way back to Arthur, the end of the poker casting off a ominous glow onto Arthur's body. Without much thought, America digs it around underneath Arthur's stripped flesh, causing his victim to see white and slip into unconsciousness.

"Oh...how disappointing," America says, his voice still maintaining a cruel optimism to it. "My pets aren't allowed to take naps unless I say so, however. Something to get used to..."

America tosses the poker to the cold floor, watching the glow on the end die out and spark. Reaching for his whip, he strikes Arthur hard across the back, promptly waking the near-broken man up with its harsh and deliberate strike. Jolting, Arthur gives a hoarse cry.

"F-Fuck you...!"

Smiling coolly, America mangles Arthur's broken wrists tighter into the confines of the shackles. He gives a strong pull to the chain, lifting Arthur back up above the ground into his earlier position, his arms pulled extremely taut. His breaths come out in short gasps, Arthur near the point of whimpering at the rush of air against his raw back.

"P-Please...," he croaks out, sobbing. "St-Stop..."

The whip lands across his chest and he jerks, the chain not letting him move far. At first, Arthur's screams are a beautiful and rich sound to America, like a delicacy after spending years with his lifeless pet who could barely offer him a raw scream such as these. Yet as much as he enjoys the anguished screams of pain, America quickly grows bored of them, and instead starts focusing on conditioning Arthur not to scream. At each cry, Arthur gets another lash, and another, and another... Until Arthur is dead quiet. Even when the whip tears at his flesh, breaking him down, he doesn't dare make any sound. America keeps striking, loving the rush of power that he gets when Arthur finally submits and stops screaming without even a single verbal command.

_Ah, what a good pet this one will make._

He finally releases the chains holding Arthur up, watching with sick satisfaction as Arthur's body falls painfully to the floor without a sound with only his broken wrists still hanging up above his head. The only signs that the body on the floor is even still alive is the slight, ragged rising and falling of Arthur's chest, and the slight shaking of his body. America leers over him, fully enjoying seeing him in this position. His expression is murderous, tinted with... What was that, affection?

Arthur groans, turning his head away as tears spill onto the ground. "...Let me go..."

America, who was just about to comment on how good Arthur was being, has to retract his statement with a chilled smile. With twisted excitement, he examines the light dying in Arthur's eyes. "Ah, ah, ah. You shouldn't have done that, my little pet." He pulls out a knife from his pocket, letting the chain still holding Arthur's wrists up fall down to the ground with the rest of Arthur's body. Using his strength to drive his movement, he takes his knife and stabs it straight through Arthur's hands with ease, the blade cracking into the floor.

Blinding pain assaults Arthur, rushing from his hands down his body. Arthur screams until his voice fails him, writhing, tugging the flesh of his hands against the knife that is pinning them to the floor. Any way he moves cuts the blade against his palms, twisting star-shaped patterns into his flesh. His screams fall to whimpers, Arthur closing his eyes as America hangs over him, digging the knife around without mercy or fail. Arthur gives a silent scream, wishing for...

_Alfred, please...!_

Casually speaks around Arthur's struggle, America moves the knife around in his hands. "And here I was going to praise you for being such a good pet and staying quiet. I'm very disappointed in you." He laughs as he continues to drive the knife into Arthur's hands, loving the way Arthur's face twists up in agony and fear and despair as he writhes against him, screaming until he literally can't scream any more. Once Arthur's screams die out, America grins sadistically. "There we go, now was that so hard? Now you're starting to be a good, obedient little pet."

He's about to continue speaking when there's a sudden, urgent-sounding knock at the door. Extremely irritated at having his fun time interrupted, America pulls the knife out of Arthur's hands without even flinching and storms over to the door, opening it so hard that he very nearly tears it off its hinges and glaring at the person standing outside the door and immediately moving the bloodied knife to the man's throat.

"You have five seconds to convince me not to kill you. Five...four...one—"

"W-Wait, p-please w-wait M-M-Master! I-It's the r-r-rebels!"

America pulls the knife away from the man's throat, scowling. He angrily tosses the knife at the wall, watching with satisfaction as the entire object gets embedded into the wall all the way down to its hilt. America turns his attention back to the messenger boy, who does his best not to flinch as America's cold, angry glare settles on him.

"Details. Now."

The messenger boy nods shakily before quickly relaying the details of the rebels' latest attack, infringing on decaying soil that used to be Canadian—it could never belong to anyone of the sort anymore, seeing as how America had burned his body just the other day—and trampling over the dying earth towards the core of America's empire. America's scowl just grows more and more menacing, until he's nearly growling with rage.

"...Those bastards think that they can get the upper hand on me?" America swiftly turns on his heel and moves over to Arthur. "Do. Not. Move. From. This. Spot. Is that understood?" America waits for the quiet "yes Master" that he was expecting out of habit. He starts to get pissed off even more when he doesn't hear it, taking a moment to remember that Arthur's vocal chords are probably already shot out. He instead looks for a nod, which he receives. Taking that as a satisfactory response, America turns back around and storms out of the room, just barely remembering to lock it behind him before rushing off to deal with the latest thorn in his side.

"And I was having the Soviet Union and his pet over today for a visit. Those goddamn fucking rebels. This had better not take long..." America heads down to the ground floor and out the door, eager to see some more bloodshed.

Arthur remains on the floor. Although his hands are free from the stake of the knife, he doesn't dare move them. Blood washes around his palms, spilling through the grooves in the floor, crisscrossing his pale forearms. He forces shallow breaths out, listening as America grows father and farther away, locking him in silence inside the torture chamber. Immediately, Arthur lets out a silent sob, the force of it wracking his frame and prompting pain from every part of him. He can't discern between each individual wound, and so he lies there, numbed to everything else but an overall burning engulfing his body. There's a feverish heat on his skin, making him feel overwhelmingly nauseous, but he knows he has to act now. Arthur needs to move, he needs to get out of here, and he needs to find his spellbook.

Arthur bites his lip, screaming as he forces his body to move, trying to get from his back onto his front. He can't do it—his limbs giving out on him, hands useless to help him prop his body weight up. His kneecap gives a rich sensation of pain when he attempts to move his leg, and he rests his head back, sobbing in despair.

_I'm trapped here. I'm trapped here. I'm never getting out of here... N-No, I have to, I have to..._

He tries once more to sit up, receiving a piercing feeling from his side, where his broken ribs are. Arthur coughs, blood spraying his cheeks, trickling down from his lips to his throat. He shakes, trembling and groaning. He can't even see the expanse of the room anymore, everything blurred in the midst of his tears.

_...Alfred... I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry..._ He rethinks that for a moment. _...You won't miss me. It's okay. You won't have to deal with me any longer... See?_ Fresh tears slip down his cheeks. _...Maybe it's better if I stay here, right Alfred? You can have an England that isn't so horrible to you. He can make you happy. Just leave me. Everyone will forget about me eventually. _

His heart clenches painfully at the thought of not having anything to return to, as well as not having anyone to care enough to come save him. But in reality, how could Alfred get to him? He had no way of casting a spell, and if the other England was truly that weakened... Arthur closes his eyes, a few last tears slipping down his face as he drifts into unconsciousness.

Somewhere in the manor, two figures fall to the ground amidst a flash of light.

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**A/N: **Alright, this will be the last chapter I'll be uploading for a little while. I will be going on a summer vacation for a week or so!


	6. Alfred and England

**A/N: **Back from vacation! Here you are~

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The room swims into view, its high ceiling adorned in gold paint and careful patterns. From the floor, Alfred groans, slowly sitting up and rubbing his head.

"What the hell just...?"

He takes a moment to absorb his surroundings, shocked to find himself not in Arthur's basement, but in what looks like someone's bedroom. He's equally surprised to find England on the floor not too far away from him, prompting him to quickly move over to him in worry.

_I thought he was gonna stay behind! Dammit, this isn't good... But then again, I'm not gonna be able to get around in this world without his help, I don't think... _

England rests on his side, chest slowly rising and falling in his unconscious state. If it weren't for the damage on his body, Alfred would have thought he had just woken up next to his Arthur. Gently, Alfred scoops him up from the soft carpeting and places him on the grand bed. He makes sure England is resting comfortably before moving around the room, trying to look for... Well, anything, really. Something that would help him figure out who's room he was in (though he had a sinking suspicion whose room it was based on the overly-expensive furniture lying about), or maybe something that would be of use to him later. He catches sight of a large map and shudders, his country's name with the word "empire" in front of it looking so wrong to him, not to mention how wide his territory seems to spread.

He shakes his head and tears his eyes away from the map, instead looking through drawers and closets, eventually finding a set of pristine white suits lined up. "I guess these are his..." He refuses to acknowledge the America of this world as being the same as himself, because he knows that he's nothing like the monster calling himself "America" here. He looks down at his own clothes and frowns.

_I'm not going to be able to pull off blending in here dressed like this. As sick as it makes me to do this, I'm probably going to have to try and pretend to be the America of this world... Otherwise, I may just get attacked and killed for trespassing or something, especially since I look just like him... _

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair nervously, glancing back at the unconscious England on America's bed. _I'm just scared he's going to freak out if he sees me dressed like him...but I don't have any other choice, do I? I'll be able to walk around freely if I'm dressed like him. No one will stop me._

His decision made, he takes off his jacket and moves over to England, gently covering England's frail form with it. He can't help but smile sadly as England almost immediately latches onto it and pulls it closer to himself in his sleep. He bends over and lightly kisses the top of England's head before moving back over to the closet, his features determined as he strips down and changes into one of the suits from the closet, the outfit being a sickeningly perfect fit. He debates what to do with his clothes, and he finally decides to just empty his pockets of anything important before shoving the clothes under the bed—the only thing he was wearing that he felt couldn't be replaced was his jacket, and he figured that England could at least hold onto that for him for the time being until they got back home. He moves back over to England, reluctantly trying to wake him up. "England...? C'mon, get up, we probably shouldn't stay here for too long, you said we had to hurry, right?" He's afraid to try and shake England awake, so he instead gently runs his fingers through England's hair, keeping his voice quiet and gentle as he prays that England doesn't start to freak out once he opens his eyes.

England stirs at the soft cushioning underneath him, the warmth of something wrapped in his fingers and blanketing his frame draws him awake. He feels for it, brushing against leather. _...Alfred's jacket...Where did he go? _His eyes open, immediately gazing at a familiar canopy, overarching the expanse of the rather large bed. _...M-My Master's bed? _

The voice soothing him, as well as the fingers brushing through his hair, draw his eyes to the foot of the bed. As soon as he looks, his heart drops. England tries to back away, his eyes lingering in fear on the figure standing there, obviously unaware that it's Alfred.

Alfred isn't too surprised to see the look of panic and fear directed at him once England opens his eyes, and he quickly focuses on calming England down, quietly reassuring him that it's just him, it's just Alfred, continuing to run his fingers soothingly through England's hair until he's positive that he's calmed down enough. "He's not going to get to you... Not while I'm here."

England relaxes at this, wrapping his arms around the jacket, burying his face in the fur of the collar. Alfred feels a ghost of a smile flicker across his face as England hugs his jacket close and buries his face in the fur of the collar, finding the image adorable—or rather, he _would_ have found the image adorable, had England not still looked terrified, his eyes wide.

"...A-Alfred. We're... We're in my Master's room." He says this as if it was the most forbidden place on earth. "...He's going to find out. We have to go..." Alfred in the white suit is hard to look at, making him ill. He knows that he won't be harmed by Alfred, but it's so hard to see such a person as kind as him dressed like the killer that his America had come to be. He shakes and looks up, meeting Alfred's eyes. "There are torture chambers all along the corridors. Your Arthur will be in one of them, most likely. Unless he has placed him in my chambers, which I highly doubt. My Master probably wanted to play with him first..."

Alfred hates how terrified of him England is now that he's dressed like America, but he doesn't exactly blame him either, realizing and reluctantly accepting that there's no way that England's going to fully calm down around him while he's dressed like this. He nods as England speaks, feeling physically ill at the casual mention of torture chambers, and even more so at just how many there seem to be. "Yeah, I kinda figured that's who's room this was... Don't worry, we're not going to stay here long; now that you're up, we can go. Any idea which one he'd be in? I-It's fine if you don't, I just figured it'd be good to have an idea where to start..." He gently helps England into a sitting position, moving his hand away from England's head and holding onto England's arm with one hand and his back with the other, and making absolutely sure that his grip was as light as he could keep it while still providing some support.

At Alfred's question, England turns his head up. "I.. I think that it may be the one near the library. It's a far walk through the manor from here... farther from my room, even." He sits up with Alfred's help, gripping to the jacket, trying to feel warmth against the chill of his Master's room and his uniform on Alfred. England looks nervously back to Alfred, then to his jacket. "...D-Do you want this back?"

Taking in the information, Alfred nods. He offers a slight smile at England's question. "You can hang onto it for now. If I walk around wearing that, I'm just going to stand out."

England nods and holds the jacket, unsure of what to do with it. He decides to try and slip it on. It feels strange, as England hasn't worn anything besides his uniform for years. The jacket feels odd... Almost weighted. England examines it, his fingers barely peeking out past the sleeves.

"And speaking of walking around," Alfred continues. "You're in no condition to be running around looking through torture chambers with me, so I'll bring you to your room first; you can hide there and I'll come back and get you once I've found Arthur... Er, my world's Arthur, I mean... Damn, this is going to get confusing, calling you both Arthur or Artie... Well, whatever, I'll figure out the name situation later. Is your room near here? I'll just carry you there real fast and—" He pauses, his face falling. "...Shit, wait, I can't do that, can I? That will probably immediately make me stand out, which kinda defeats the purpose of getting dressed like this..." He makes a face as he looks down at the outfit he's wearing, obviously disgusted. "...Do you think you're alright to walk, at least?"

"Y-Yes, I can hide in my room, I suppose. It's down the hall. I'll just have to be careful but..." At Alfred's suggestion of him walking, he places a hand on his. "A-Alfred... there's something you must understand. I am not allowed to walk around on my own—not even with an escort. I... I have to crawl, like his pet. Do you understand?" The words burn at his throat as he goes to say them. _No no no no no please don't make me wear that again, please. God anything but that. I don't want to go back to feeling like property... _But he knows. He knows that it has to be done. He has to help Alfred. "You have to collar me...and clip the leash on. It's the only way."

Alfred feels sick to his stomach, his eyes widening in shock. "Y-You can't be serious... I can't! I-I know I have to try and pretend to act like him so I don't looks suspicious, b-but that's just..." He starts to feel tears prick at the corners of his eyes, and he balls his hands into fists, frustrated. "T-That's just _wrong_! I-I can't... I...I..." All of his frustration leaves him in a single, shaky sigh that comes out as more of a quiet sob, his fists uncurling as he quietly relents. "...F-Fuck, I'm really going to have to do this, aren't I?"

England tightens his grip on Alfred's hand, trying to make this easier for the both of him. But he's still shaking—he's still very terrified of the whole situation, that he escaped this place only to be deposited back here again by his own will. He nods, trembling. "Y-Yes. You have to..."

Wiping away his tears as best as he can, Alfred moves to give England a quick, gentle kiss on his forehead. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I swear to God the _second _we get to your room I'll take it off..." He very reluctantly backs away from England, forcing his next words out. "...Where are they?"

He feels around for his collar, remembering that Alfred had taken it off back at Arthur's home. "I... My master keeps a spare, I think. In his closet, there should be a velvet box. H-He...had it designed for me. And there are leashes in the there as well. He often made me retrieve them myself."

Alfred is shaking, his eyes still brimming with tears as he moves over to the closet, retrieving the collar and leash from a shelf that houses items he just knows are for use on England. Forcing down bile, he walks over to England, biting his lip before shakily handing them to him.

"H-Here. I...I'm not putting them on you. I can't...I just can't...I'm sorry, I already can't forgive myself for having to make you wear this thing again...but putting it on you myself? I'm sorry, I know I'm being selfish, but I just can't do it..."

England is terrified when he sees the collar again. He closes up in on himself, willing a sob down in his throat. _N-No... It's just Alfred, he won't hurt you. You have to do this...you have to do this and then you can be safe... He won't let anything happen to you..._ But Alfred hands him the collar and leash, asking him to place them on himself. England is fine with placing the leash on-that he's done ritually each morning for his Master. But... The collar? He's never touched it before... He examines it in his hands, shaking. _You have to._ Tears slip down his cheeks as he wraps it around his raw and bruised flesh on his neck. The leather is both cold and stifling on his skin as it presses into his throat. He clasps it on, eyes looking to Alfred for guidance—just like he looked for his Master to lead. He gives him the leash, preparing himself to crawl, body violently trembling.

Alfred is unable to even watch as England places the collar around his own neck with some difficulty and clips the leash to the collar, even just the thought of England dehumanizing himself and putting himself in this humiliating situation because of him making him literally gag. He feels the leash being shakily pressed into his equally badly shaking hands. He reluctantly closes his hand around the leash before turning back to face England, feeling his heart breaking at the expression on England's face. He bites back a sob and gently kisses England's forehead again before resting his own forehead against England's, choking out quiet, heartfelt apologies before finally forcing himself to calm down, pulling away from England and shakily wiping away his tears.

"...L-Let's go and get this over with." He glances at himself in a nearby mirror, making sure that his face is clear of any tears before taking a shaky breath, watching England slowly lower himself down to the floor and get down on all fours. "...I want you to walk in front of me. Set the pace. I don't want to accidentally hurt you by walking too fast."

England does as Alfred instructs and crawls in front of him, attempting to set a pace. It still hurts him... His knees bruised and damaged, body aching. The collar is designed to infringe on his airway, so regardless, he has a difficult time breathing. Once England starts walking—or crawling, rather—towards the door, Alfred starts moving as well, reaching over and opening the door for the two of them. England's form shakes as he begins crawling towards his room, and it takes all of Alfred's willpower to force his body to not do the same as he follows after England, leash in hand. He carefully matches England's surprisingly fast pace, keeping his expression cool, calm, and collected—even though his mind is anything but that. The only physical sign of his distress is the hand holding the leash, which is slightly shaking despite his attempts to make it stop—and he quickly realizes that England made a good call, because there are many servants running to and fro around the mansion, every single one of them avoiding his eye and quite obviously trying to hastily remove themselves from his presence.

_...Which, as sick as it makes me to even think this, is probably a good thing—this means that no one suspects that I'm not the America from this world. Let's just hope I can keep this up long enough to find Arthur and get myself and both Arthurs back home... _He glances down at the leash in his trembling hand, and at England's shaking form crawling on the ground just one step ahead of him at the most, and feels a wave of nausea hit him, just barely managing to keep his facade in place as tears threaten to form in his eyes. _...But to have to see England like this...if acting like the America from this world means I have to keep seeing England like this, and treating him like this... I don't know how much longer I'll be able to hold on for before I crack and slip up... _

For England, crawling through these halls is jarring... It does horrors for him. He forgets that he's with Alfred, his expression taking on something of his Master's as all the servants avoid straying into their path. Once England is near certain he can't take any more of this, he arrives at his door, stopping, waiting for Alfred to guide. It's habit—when he has the leash on, he doesn't even bother leading. He had done so a few times... Never again. It brought on the kind of beatings that are so brutal you can never forget them... They install things into you. Horrible things. Horrible habits and reflexes.

Alfred is relieved when England finally stops in front of a door, opening it for them as quickly as he can without seeming too conspicuous and letting the both of them into the room. Once they're within the safety of its walls, Alfred quickly closes the door behind them before dropping his facade, his form shaking and tears pooling up in his eyes as he immediately drops the leash as if it burns him to hold it. He sinks to the floor, his legs giving out on him, but he refuses to just sit there, remembering his promise and intending to follow through with it. He moves over to England, shakily taking off the collar as quickly yet carefully as he can, choking out heartfelt apologies for having to make England act in such a dehumanizing way as tears roll down his cheeks. Once the collar is off, he tosses it to the side before moving even closer to England and gently pulling him against his chest in a hug, kissing the top of his head and moving one hand to soothingly run his fingers through England's hair. "Just... Just hang on for a little bit more...all I have to do is find the Arthur from my world, and then I'll come right back here with him and we can all get out of here together..."

England wishes he wouldn't flinch every time Alfred reaches for him, to hug him, to soothe him. He wishes he wouldn't cringe at the kisses, even though they're everything he's ever dreamed of. The only thing that belonged to him in this place—the hope that one day, his America would love him. That's all he wanted. He leans against Alfred, trembling with a brutal intensity. It was just so surreal. Everything... He wanted to go back to that other world with Alfred...back where he would be loved.

Alfred waits to make sure England has sufficiently calmed down before starting to move away from him, shakily attempting to dry his tears. "I-I'm going to go and find Arthur now... Uh, the other Arthur. You know what I mean." He runs a hand through his hair nervously. "I don't wanna leave you here by yourself for too long, but there's a good chance that it'll take me a while to find him, and..." He bites his lip, not wanting to admit this out loud but knowing that it's most likely what he's going to find. "...He's probably gonna be in really bad shape, so it might take me a little while before I can move him...but I swear I'll come back as fast as possible. If anything happens, I want you to scream for me, and I swear, I don't care if I'm on the opposite side of this damned mansion, I'll come right away—I don't just want to save the Arthur from my world, I want to save you too, I want to be your hero too..." He reluctantly starts to stand back up, giving England another quick kiss on the top of his head before fully righting himself. "You said he's probably in one of the rooms near the library, right? Which way's that?"

The kiss ignites a flare in England's chest, a flare of excitement? Of hope? He watches as Alfred rises. "Y-Yes Ma—I mean, yes. I promise. Take a left, head down a side-staircase, and it should be to the left of the landing. You can't miss it."

Alfred tries not to frown at England's slip up, telling himself to feel grateful that England at least caught himself of his own accord, and he nods as England gives him the directions. "Alright...I'll be back as fast as possible, I promise." With an air of determination, Alfred turns and leaves England's room, carefully closing the door behind him.

England says his goodbyes and watches as Alfred slips out of the room. He's too good for him. He's too good, and England knows, he just knows that he can never have him. Alfred belongs to another version of England's self. He clutches at the jacket, crawling to his bed, slipping underneath it. He breathes in the nostalgic scent of leather and Alfred's aftershave... All the times they would spend time together as equals—near lovers—rushing back into his head. He clenches his fists and rolls onto his side, burying his sobs into the jacket as he expels every tear he has left.

Outside the room, Alfred begins following England's directions, walking as fast as possible without seeming too conspicuous. He hurries down the many hallways, and finally manages to find himself standing in front of a large set of double-doors that he was sure held the library behind them...not that he was interested in that right now.

_Okay, so one of these rooms past here should have Arthur..._ Unsure what more he could do, he starts opening the doors one by one, grateful that it doesn't seem like there are any servants in this area to witness their "Master's" odd behavior.

Finally, after a few more minutes of searching (which seem agonizingly long in Alfred's opinion), he comes across a door that seems to be more sturdily made than the others. Of course, with Alfred's strength, he has no trouble pushing the door open and closing it behind him. Once he gets the door open and steps inside, however, he almost wishes that he didn't.

There is only blood. _Everywhere_. So much blood, that it's impossible for there to have been just one person being tortured in this room...unless that one person happened to be someone whose blood would regenerate much faster than any normal human's would, whose wounds would close up much faster than any normal human's would, only to be opened and reopened again in an endless cycle of pure, unadulterated torture. It takes Alfred way too many seconds for his liking to finally pick something else out of the mass of red... But once he does, he finds himself frozen in his spot, his body shaking and his eyes wide open in terror.

"...Arthur..."

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**A/N:** Aaaaaand now it's time for me to work on the next chapter, isn't it? XD


	7. Alfred and Arthur II

**A/N: **I felt bad leaving you guys like that after reading the reviews... XD I love your feedback, honestly. It really fuels my writing and I am grateful. I am working on an alternate ending to this story that I will be posting after a certain chapter in the future, as this story still has a long way to go before it is complete!

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Arthur's name escapes Alfred's lips as no more than a quiet, shocked murmur, but even just this tiny sound is enough to break Alfred out of his shocked trance.

"Oh God... _Arthur_!" He runs over to Arthur's unconscious form, frantically checking for a pulse and letting out a small, relieved sigh upon finding that he's still alive...but that's really the best he can say for Arthur—his body is such a mess, such a complete canvas of torture, that Alfred can't even tell where one injury begins and another ends. He realizes belatedly that he's kneeling in a puddle of Arthur's blood, and that's when the last straw of Alfred's restraint snaps. He scrambles away from Arthur's body and towards a corner of the room where he starts to let everything out of his system, unable to stop heaving even after his body has nothing left to throw up. He tries his best to steady his breathing before shakily standing back up, spotting a few sealed containers of water on a nearby desk (somehow an aid in torturing Arthur, no doubt, though he can't bring himself to even want to think of exactly how) and walking over to the desk before grabbing one. He opens it, drinking a bit to wash the sour taste out of his mouth...as well as to put off what he knows he will have to inevitably do—that being for him to go and face the sight of Arthur's broken body once more.

Once he thinks he's mentally prepared himself enough—or once he's convinced himself that he's mentally prepared himself enough, even if he knows in his heart that he'll never be ready, nor willing, to see what he knows has to see—he turns around and heads back over to Arthur's body. It's no good, though. As soon as Arthur's body comes into sight, Alfred feels himself breaking down once more, this time through tears and shaking instead of nausea. Very gently, as gently as he can possibly manage, he shakily reaches out a hand and strokes Arthur's cheek with his fingertips, much like he'd first done for England.

"A-Arthur? Artie? P-Please...oh God, please wake up..." He's unable to choke back a sob, tears steadily streaming down his face. He notices shackles wrapped around Arthur's wrists and ankles, Alfred unable to waste time in finding the key. The tension of the moment fuels his strength, Alfred tearing at the iron bands until they snap clean off like plastic. He's careful to mind Arthur's hands, the damage on them nearly enough to nauseate him again.

_Arthur... Arthur..._

He's burning alive. That's Arthur's first thought. Even in his dreams—which are plagued by cerulean eyes, twisted around a cyclone of black, of darkness—he's being stabbed, whipped, burned, tortured to a bloody demise. And when it's all over, the cuts heal to scars, bruises remain, and he's forced to do it all over again. He dreamed of Alfred, Arthur calling out to him, lying in a pool of his blood, screaming. Alfred had turned to him, no sympathy in his eyes...just a tint of resentment. _This...This is real_, Arthur had thought as everything went black once more. There was Alfred torturing him. _His_ Alfred, not America, torturing him in front of everyone. Everyone. And no one would help him. Sure enough, he can hear someone screaming at him, a hand on his face. More screaming...

_...Another round... Another round until I give up. _

His whole body is on fire. He doesn't bother to open his eyes—judging from the voice alone, he can tell. It's _him_, come back to beat him once more.

"...P-Pl..ease..." he manages to croak out, sobbing gently without having enough strength to do much else. Tears stream down his face, coating over the blood that has collected around his mouth. He coughs, more crimson spilling off his tongue, bubbling over his lips past his chin, creating a solid trail down his pale and abused flesh. "...K-Kill me... Out of... Misery..."

_I want to be put out of my misery...just let it end. Just let it bloody end._

"...No one will care. I don't have... a loved one to return to," he sobs, barely able to force those words out of his throat. _I want to die. I want to die. I don't want to wake up ever again if it means I have to become his toy in this world. I give up._

Alfred's eyes widen as he hears the words coming out of Arthur's mouth. _What...?_ His eyes only widen further as he's hit with the sickening realization that the last thing he'd said to Arthur was full of hatred and malice. _No! But I didn't...I never meant it!_

It was one thing to have seen the England of this timeline in such a similar state, but…this is _Arthur_. His Arthur. Not an Arthur from an alternate timeline, the Arthur from _his_ timeline, the Arthur that he loves more than life itself, the Arthur that's currently so broken that Alfred is afraid that he might never be able to fix him again.

_And it's my fault...it's all my fault..._ Alfred lets out a quiet sob, tears unabashedly streaming down his face. "Arthur...Arthur please, Arthur, it's me, it's Alfred, please...I'm sorry, I'm sorry, _God_ I'm so sorry, this is all my fault, if I hadn't been so stupid, if I hadn't said such a hurtful thing to you at the meeting...I didn't mean it, I really didn't, it just slipped out and I don't even know where the hell it came from because I don't feel like that, not at all!" He gently, shakily kisses Arthur's forehead, his lips only just barely gracing Arthur's skin in a feather-light touch. "I love you, Arthur, God I love you so much, but I was such an idiot, I ruined it, I ruined _you_, this is all my fault, I'm so sorry..." He kisses away the tears on each of Arthur's cheeks, making sure to keep his kisses just as light as the one before and not even caring as his lips come into contact with Arthur's blood as well as his tears. "But I'm going to help you, I swear to God I'm going to help you, even if you hate me for the rest of eternity—and you have every right to after everything you've been through—I'm still going to help you and love you regardless."

He hesitates slightly before placing a soft kiss to Arthur's lips, too distressed and worried about Arthur to be bothered to feel embarrassed, and not caring about the fact that he's just further bloodied his lips as he absentmindedly wipes the blood off on his sleeve. He continues to repeat his quiet yet sincere declaration of love over and over again as he gently, desperately peppers Arthur's face with kisses and runs his fingers through Arthur's hair, looking for some kind of recognition... Something to show him that Arthur realizes that he's safe now, that Alfred's here to protect him now, that _Alfred_ is the loved one he has to return to...

Arthur hears something faint, someone speaking. There were gentle touches on his face, fingers threading softly through his hair. _...It's over._ More tears spill down his cheeks. _It's over, it's over. I'm dead. I don't have to suffer any longer._ He shudders in relief, whimpering. _It's bloody over._ He suspects the hands comforting him were figments of his imagination—either that or his fairies had followed him to his death, which was highly unlikely.

He forces his eyes open, expecting to see an expanse of nothingness, when in fact, he's still in the torture chamber. His heart plummets in his chest and he attempts a scream of agony and despair, not having the voice to offer more than a strangled cry. Then he realizes the source of the light sensations on his skin, the fingers in his hair... It was America. Arthur jerks, the movement enough to press his ribs further into his flesh—into his organs—and he coughs, tilting his head to the side while more blood spills out onto the floor. He can't bother to wipe at it, his hands useless. The words from America send his heart into a frenzy, and he struggles to listen to everything he says.

"...Nn... Lie... You're lying...," he says hoarsely. "...He doesn't love me..."

Amidst his haze, he finds a way to lock his eyes onto deep blues, undamaged by corruption and power and oh so _sad_. Arthur closes his eyes. There was only one person those blues could belong to... Real or a hallucination. _It's him. It's Alfred. But he tried to kill me. So why?_

Alfred feels relieved when Arthur finally opens his eyes, but his relief is short lived upon hearing Arthur's words. A small sob slips out as he starts crying even more, using one hand to gently wipe away the blood on Arthur's mouth and face while continuing to run his fingers through Arthur's hair. "No! I'm not lying, I would never lie, not about this!"

Refusing to believe it, Arthur shakes his head to the best of his ability. "...It's not true.. it's not true.. you can't..." The things he saw in his head earlier...were they dreams? Didn't Alfred say he didn't love him? Didn't he torture him? Didn't he want to leave him here, with this America? So for that reason, he finds it selfish—he really does, when he leans into Alfred's fingers. He wants so badly to go with him, to beg him. He bites his tongue.

_No. No. It's all a bloody lie... A lie, damn it! What... What's real? I don't know what to do... What to say... Everything hurts so badly, I just want to let go. Stop toying with me, Alfred...let me go._

"...Let me go. I can't...burden you that way..." He forces his eyes open, forces them to find Alfred's face as he gives a small, pained smile past the crimson in his mouth, on his lips. "Just leave me here. Go on, Alfred... I'm of no use to you...like this." He closes his eyes, wondering whether the incessant tears on his cheeks are his own, Alfred's, or both of theirs.

_Why is he crying? He shouldn't cry over me._ There's that one part of him that tells him, it's because Alfred loves him, it's because he really wants him, that he's sorry and he's going to take care of him. But he was just so terrified... The combination of America's mockery of his feelings and his feverish nightmares implemented in his mind that he was just like this world's America—he couldn't be loved. No one loved him. He was forgotten, he was trash. An token of exchange to save another version of himself... A better version of himself. "...Hurry before he gets back.. Go."

Alfred won't settle for this, leaning closer to Arthur with a voice choked by tears. "Don't you get it? I love you! I love you so much, and I'm not leaving you, Arthur, I _can't_ leave you—why can't you see that? I came here _to save you_, I came here to _take you home_, because I _need_ you, I _love_ you... I love you so much, and I don't deserve for you to love me back, but at least let me help you, please!"

Arthur shakes his head again—although he feels foolish for denying Alfred cares for him, he just has to be certain. "L-Leave me! Damn it...I deserve this, Alfred. I can't go with you..." His own words make him sob, nothing but silence and tears in the room, an occasional small, broken noise escaping his lips. "I can't, I—!"

Not sure of how else to prove it, Alfred leans down and kisses Arthur's lips again, that desperation returning. This stops Arthur from speaking as he feels Alfred's lips on his, causing him to open his eyes in shock.

_Wh-What...?_ As Alfred pulls away, Arthur stares at him, wide-eyed, struggling to register what had just happened. Tears cloud his vision, and he feels his body shudder once before he falls into a series of unrelenting sobs, wracking his entire frame. He's felt so _alone_... For days he thought no one would save him. Everything unclogs and he realizes that he's wanted, that he's going to be _saved_.

"...You...love me?" he asks, voice small and soft.

Alfred smiles, relieved, as he feels like he's finally starting to make a breakthrough. He continues to gently run his fingers through Arthur's hair, his expression filled with pure love and affection as he kisses away Arthur's tears. "Yes, I do. I love you...I've loved you for so long, but..." His smile falls slightly. "...I just kept screwing things up...every time I thought I'd finally worked up the courage to tell you, I'd end up saying something wrong and pissing you off instead...and then at the World Meeting..." He shakes his head, his regret shining clearly in his entire expression. "I never should have said something like that. I've never felt that way, ever, it was just...I was so angry, and we were both yelling mean things back and forth, and that was just something that my mind thought to say without actually thinking about how much it'd really hurt you... And I know that if you didn't hate me before, then you definitely hate me now for saying something hurtful and cruel like that. Not to mention how you probably hate me for everything that's happened to you here..." He smiles sadly. "...But it's okay, I deserve it, I know I do. All that matters to me now is making sure that you get back home, safe and sound." He leans forward and lightly kisses Arthur's forehead, continuing to run his fingers through Arthur's hair.

Arthur can't even believe what he's hearing. He feels ill, his face quickly draining of color, his breaths coming out in short gasps. His ribs are applying so much pressure on him—it's even hard to just remain on the floor there. He can barely talk, but he knows he has to say something. "...N-No... I don't... I can't hate you. Ever..." It takes all his strength to offer his next set of words. "Now... Of all the bloody times, you pick _now_ to tell me that you love me?" Coughing, Arthur cracks a small smile. "You really are a complete and hopeless idiot..."

Alfred looks away, his expression slightly pained. If Arthur was comfortable with him again...that's all he needed. "T-There's the Arthur I know...," he says, trying to smile past the hurt in his chest. "It's fine... I thought—!"

"—I'm not finished," Arthur breathes, interrupting Alfred as he struggles to stay conscious. "...I love you, too. I've always loved _you_...even if this isn't the time or place I thought I'd be saying this... But honestly I thought I would never say those words..." He takes a shallow breath and lets his eyes close, the pain overwhelming him, taking his voice and closing up his throat. He struggles to breathe properly, grimacing and wincing. If the pain was merely burning before, now it's searing, hot fire lapping at his limbs and plugging up his ears, lending the sensation that he's shrouded in something...something inhibiting his senses and movements.

Alfred is overjoyed at Arthur's words, but he begins to panic as Arthur's condition worsens. "Dammit Artie, you're _not _dying on me, you hear me? I-I'm going to fix you up and get you out of here..." He honestly isn't even sure where to start, but he knows he can't just sit there and do nothing. He reluctantly moves away from Arthur for a second, turning around and looking around for something in particular.

Arthur doesn't reply—more that he can't than anything else. He feels Alfred moving and he panics, unable to call out for him. _He left you._ Arthur's chest rises and falls quicker, causing him to huff out in painful gasps. He's scared...terrified. _No, no, no. Don't say you need me and leave me with him... _He slips into unconsciousness, unable to stay awake anymore as he spirals down into the dark.

Moving around the room, Alfred wishes he had some semblance of a light. _If I know myself, then there should be one right...around...there! Found it!_ He feels a small, victorious smile ghost across his face as he spots—buried in a corner as if purposely hidden away from anyone's view—a first aid kit. _No matter how psycho I am in this world...there's no way that I'd let Artie die. Even if it's just for the sake of getting to torture him again and again..._

He opens the kit, and his suspicions are confirmed as he realizes that everything is in this first aid kit to treat every single different type of physical wound that Arthur has. It attests to the fact that this first aid kit was indeed put together with the sole intention of torturing first, healing later, and torturing again. The thought makes Alfred sick, but he's at least grateful to have something to work with as he heads back over to Arthur, kneeling back down at his side. He gently cups the side of Arthur's face and kisses his lips again before speaking slowly and clearly in an attempt to make his words break through Arthur's fever and pain-induced haze.

"I'm going to start to try and treat your injuries now...I'm not going to lie, it's going to hurt, probably more than you're already hurting right now... But if the pain is too much, tell me and I'll stop." He moves the hand on Arthur's face up to Arthur's head and starts to run his fingers through Arthur's hair gently, leaning over and lightly kissing Arthur's lips again before reluctantly pulling away and starting to take out some things from the kit. He knows that Arthur is having a difficult time hearing him over his pain and his fever, but he feels the need to let him know what's happening regardless before he starts doing anything. "...I'm going to start now...I'm sorry..."

Arthur swears it's only been a split second since he dipped out of conscious. Yet when he opens his eyes, Alfred's hand is gently raking through his hair, Alfred leaning in to kiss him. He speaks soothing words, kind and gentle. Arthur's breathing relaxes only slightly—the prospect of the oncoming pain frightening to him. He looks at Alfred to signal that he understood before he closes them once more, exhaling shakily, a chill running up and down his spine as he thinks about what he's going to have to endure to get out of this place.

Alfred steels himself for what he's about to do before starting to clean out the holes in Arthur's hands so he can wrap them. He's not surprised when Arthur's face immediately twists up in pain, but he pauses regardless.

"S-Should I stop?"

Arthur is unresponsive for a few seconds before he shakes his head "no," a pained expression still on his face. Alfred bites his lip before going back to cleaning Arthur's hands.

The pressure on Arthur's hands is near enough for him to believe he's dying. His fingers are bleeding from his nails having been savagely ripped out from his nail beds, coating his hands in blood. It didn't occur to him just how painful the broken joints and bones were—they had numbed from inactivity, the blood concentrated on spilling out of his body rather than pooling around in his limbs and digits. The gaping holes in his palms needed attention—he knew this—but _God_... He screams out, or tries to...his voice is just a hoarse whisper.

"P-Please...A-Alfred... Stop!" he forces himself to cry, his voice faint.

Alfred immediately does so, making sure to rest Arthur's hands on a clean gauze on the floor before shifting a bit more towards Arthur, running a hand through his hair gently while applying light kisses to his face. He murmurs words of praise and encouragement to try and get Arthur to relax. "It's alright Artie, I stopped... You're doing great, just hang on a bit longer... You're so strong, so brave... I love you so much..."

He repeats this until he's sure that Arthur has calmed down enough for him to go back to cleaning up Arthur's injuries. Alfred isn't aware of exactly how long he kneels in that room in front of Arthur, repeating this cycle—cleaning and dressing injuries, stopping, consoling Arthur and showering him with love and affection until he's sufficiently calmed down... All to repeat the process. The pain seems to jar Arthur into a state of paranoia, Alfred having to bring him back to reality each time he thinks America has come back for him. Arthur's fear begins to die down sufficiently at each reassuring comment Alfred has to offer, and he's at the very least grateful to see that his treatments seem to be helping somewhat. Alfred was even honestly surprised to find, while rummaging through the kit right after finishing wrapping up Arthur's hands, some medicine buried all the way at the bottom of the kit, as if someone put it in the kit and was purposely trying to forget or ignore that it was there.

Once he affirmed that the medicine he'd found was something that would be of great use to Arthur given his current state, he hastily moved to grab one of the jugs of water before helping Arthur take the medicine, which, after about a half hour or so, seemed to finally be helping reduce his fever and pain slightly, at the very least. Alfred is also grateful to see that his words and actions are starting to have a very positive effect on Arthur, especially after the medicine starts to kick in and Arthur's pain and fever begin to dull bit by bit. He notices that Arthur's face starts to heat up slightly when he kisses him, and that he seems to relax faster and faster once he feels Alfred's gentle touches and hears Alfred's words of praise and love and encouragement.

As Arthur begins to recover more and more, there are occasional moments when, in an extremely quiet and tentative voice—so quiet that Alfred only catches it because he's focusing his attention on listening for Arthur even while he's cleaning and dressing Arthur's wounds—Arthur will speak up and shyly ask for a kiss, usually when it's been more than a few minutes since Alfred had last kissed him. Alfred is always quick to comply, immediately stopping what he's doing and moving closer to Arthur, pressing his lips gently against Arthur's with no hesitation whatsoever. He lingers a bit longer for the kisses that Arthur personally requests, and he refuses to move back to cleaning Arthur's injuries until he's positive that Arthur is alright.

Finally, after about an hour or two, or maybe longer, Arthur's major injuries have all been taken care of. Alfred finishes wrapping up one more of Arthur's injuries before moving and giving Arthur another kiss. "...Alright, I think I got all the major open injuries...I promise I'll take care of the rest of them when we get out of here; I just don't want to spend any more time here than we already have."

Arthur is more relaxed than he ever thought was possible, the semblance of touch—of love—enough to help him shift toward recovery. Anything that makes him certain that he is still with Alfred is enough for him... That America hasn't created some cruel joke before he chains him back up and beats him, flaying him alive. Arthur takes his first completely relieved breath for the first time in over a week.

Alfred smiles at Arthur's expression before he assesses the situation at hand. _...Arthur can't walk like this, and like hell I'm making Arthur crawl, so..._

"...We're taking this world's Arthur back home with us, because there's no way in hell that I'm leaving _any_ Arthur to suffer in this world... I'll explain more about him later, but I'll carry you over to where he is, and then the three of us can—!" Alfred jumps slightly as there's a sudden knock on the door. _S-Shit...who the hell is that?_

Arthur's green irises flicker to Alfred's blues in a total state of panic and terror. "N-No... H-He's back..." Arthur's voice trembles, a shiver wracking his frame.

Alfred gently silences Arthur by putting a finger to Arthur's lips, before leaning forward and whispering to Arthur, "I need you to do two things for me, Arthur—pretend to be unconscious, and don't believe a single word I say from the second I open that door up until the second I close it and it's the two of us again. I'm going to have to pretend to be _him_, but please just remember that I'm acting..."

Although he's no less frightened, Arthur nods. He figures that what Alfred is suggesting is the best option in the state he's in. Waiting for Arthur to respond in understanding, Alfred smiles reassuringly in response to Arthur's hesitant, shaky nod. He moves his finger and lightly presses his lips to Arthur's once more, lingering near Arthur for a second more. He finally moves away from him and stands up, his expression devoid of any love and affection it held before—instead, it is replaced with a hard, steely gaze.

Closing his eyes, Arthur lets his mind race around all the possibilities of the scenario. _I..If I need to fight... What will I do? I can't even move my hands properly. I can barely walk with my kneecap shattered like this, but there's no way I'm going to let that bastard hurt Alfred..._ He panics when he can't feel Alfred beside him any longer, heart thudding. _No no no no no... He didn't leave me...he didn't leave me, right? I can't... I can't find my way back to him like this..._

Alfred walks over to the door and calmly opens it, just barely able to repress the shock he feels as he's suddenly face-to-face with Russia—no, the Soviet Union—who smiles at him chillingly. "Privyet, comrade~ You didn't forget about my visit today, da?"

Arthur's heart drops when he hears the change in language. _Russian. Is that...is that Russia? _He tries to listen as best as he can, the room dipping in and out.

Unlike Arthur, Alfred has to force himself to remain stoic. He scowls, finding himself slipping naturally into a more aggressive and cold personality. "Of course I did, commie. I've got more important things to worry about than having you come over to play."

The Soviet Union's smile falls slightly. "More important than me, comrade?"

Alfred's eyes narrow, practically hissing out his next few words while scowling. "Do not call me that. We may be the two empires of this world, but you'd do well to remember who exactly is the more powerful empire of the two of us."

He finds himself feeling a sick sort of satisfaction as the big, strong, and feared Soviet Union actually flinches and recoils back slightly, mumbling a quiet, "I'm sorry, Mr. America." Alfred, reluctant as he is to admit it, understands Russian fluently due to the Cold War, so he understands (and feels a slight sense of empowerment upon) hearing the Soviet Union's apology. Finding himself slipping more and more into his Cold War persona, he continues speaking, deciding to try pushing his luck and talking out of his ass a bit.

"That's better. Remember, we are allies at best, nothing more...not that you've been pulling your weight recently in our alliance. Do you know how much trouble those fucking rebels have caused recently?" He scowls, glaring, and the Soviet Union flinches again. Alfred notices another figure flinch from slightly behind the Soviet Union, and he glances down briefly only to find—to his shock and disgust—Prussia on his hands and knees behind the Soviet Union.

_That's right, Russia had control of East Germany during the Cold War...so in this world, I guess he retained control of him...poor Prussia... _Alfred desperately wants to be a hero and save everyone from the two tyrannical empires of this world, but he also knows that he has to pick and choose his battles right now, and right now, his first priority is to save both Arthurs.

"D-Dа, I have. They are very naughty children, dа? I have tried my best to punish the ones I can find, but they are very sneaky..." The Soviet Union moves a bit to look around Alfred curiously before smiling gleefully. "Oh, is this why you were so busy, Mr. America? So much pretty red... You were busy playing with your pet, dа?"

Alfred mentally flinches at that, but he outwardly scowls, radiating annoyance. "Yes, until you came and so rudely interrupted me...you're lucky I don't put you in one of these fucking torture chambers."

The Soviet Union laughs. "That sounds like it would be lots of fun..." He looks down at Prussia, who flinches and shakes even more. "Doesn't it sound like fun, Kaliningrad?"

Prussia immediately responds, his voice quiet and hardly even audible. "D-Dа М-Mаster..."

The Soviet Union turns his attention back to Alfred, who continues to glare in annoyance at him. "Alright, since I came all this way just to visit you, then I guess I can wait for a little while. I'll go wait in the dining room..."

"Who the hell said you could fucking stay?"

Arthur listens to Alfred exchange words with the Soviet Union, chilled by how well Alfred eases into the role of America. _If I didn't know it was him, there would be no way I could tell the difference..._ He begins to tremble violently, his grip on reality loosening and loosening until he's really not sure that Alfred is even there anymore. _It's America. It's not Alfred._ He's here to hurt him again, he knows it. He turns his head to the side, breathing raggedly.

The Soviet Union doesn't notice Arthur's movement, ignoring Alfred. He turns around, roughly tugging Prussia's leash while giggling. "Come on, Kaliningrad."

The two of them walk away, Alfred glaring at them until they're out of sight before closing the door and dropping his facade, his body shaking nervously as he leans with his back against the door. "Fuck, I wasn't expecting that...Dammit, that bastard's still in this mansion, so he's probably going to start looking for me again if I don't go down and fucking entertain him...goddammit, can't anything be easy?"

He shakes his head and attempts to steady his breathing before quickly moving over to Arthur to check on him. Kneeling down, Alfred frowns as he notices Arthur shaking, his eyes squeezed shut and his head inclined to the side—away from Alfred. Alfred sighs. "I'm sorry Arthur...I scared you, didn't I? I didn't mean to, I'm sorry...I guess I might laid it on a bit too thick, huh?" He gently starts to run his fingers through Arthur's hair, leaning around Arthur a little bit so that he can press his lips against Arthur's.

He feels Arthur flinch, but he refuses to give up, quietly murmuring words of reassurance and affection as he continues to kiss Arthur's lips, his cheeks, his eyes, his forehead, his nose, his chin... He gently presses his lips to every part of Arthur's face in between murmuring soothing words, his fingers continuing to run through Arthur's hair.

Arthur winces at the touches running through his locks, wincing in fear. "N-No..." He begins to struggle before fully listening... Alfred's reassuring voice, his plan to get him out of here... _It is him. It is. _Arthur stops his shaking near immediately.

Alfred is relieved once Arthur starts to relax, a small smile tugging on the corners of his lips as he sees Arthur's face flush again. "I love you, I love you, I love you so much..." He continues to gently spoil Arthur with light kisses for another minute before reluctantly stopping, though he continues to run his fingers through Arthur's hair. "...I'm going to have to carry you out of here now, okay? We're going to go to where the Arthur of this world is hiding right now, and then the three of us are going to leave and put this whole nightmare behind us. We'll worry about what exactly to do with this world's Arthur later. Right now, I just can't stand the thought of leaving anyone who is pretty much you in the hands of a heartless monster." He gently moves to slip his arm under Arthur, gingerly placing it behind Arthur's back while his other arm gently moves under Arthur's legs. "Tell me when you're ready and I'll lift you; and make sure to tell me if I'm hurting you, alright?"

Nodding, Arthur reaches out for him. "R-Ready...," he whispers.

Alfred takes the cue, and Arthur eases into Alfred's arms as he cradles and lifts him. Arthur slowly opens his eyes, gazing at Alfred in grateful adoration.

"Th-Thank you. Thank you, Alfred...," he murmurs before closing his eyes, leaning against his chest.

Alfred is elated at the way Arthur looks up at him with so much love and affection and gratefulness that Alfred feels his cheeks flush slightly in response. He continues to smile softly, especially as he hears Arthur's words and feels Arthur lean against his chest. Alfred is glad to see Arthur's eyes close, knowing that he needed to rest as much as possible. "I love you too, Arthur..." He gently kisses the top of Arthur's head, holding Arthur's frail body gently against his chest.

Remembering the task at hand, Alfred steels his gaze. _I'd like to see anyone even try and say anything to me if they see me walking while holding Arthur like this._ Having minor difficulty getting the door open as he refuses to put Arthur down, Alfred finally gets out of the room, making his way towards the staircase.

In the distance outside the manor, a figure dismounts from a small tank, his bloodied boots crunching down on the grass. Gloves stained, he offers a smirk, sheathing a dagger drowned in crimson. As he moves away from the enemy weapon, a tank of his own swivels its canon to aim at it, firing a single shot to engulf whatever remained of the rebel corpses in a giant explosion. He simply walks past the carnage, his smile turning completely manic as the manor comes into view. He had some frustrations to take out, and he knew the _perfect_ target.

* * *

**A/N: **The next chapter is shorter, so I might be able to get it uploaded in a few days.


	8. Alfred, Arthur, and England

**A/N:** Here you go! A little more lighthearted of a chapter. XD

* * *

Alfred walks as swiftly as he can towards England's room, feeling as if luck is on his side as he doesn't run into a single servant on his way there—though he figures it's because they're all attempting to appease the Soviet Union.

_Right... Dammit, I almost forgot that that bastard's still waiting downstairs..._

In his arms, Arthur holds tightly to Alfred as they move throughout the manor, not bothering to open his eyes. He's safe—both he and Alfred know this now. Alfred moves quick, although his cantor is gentle, not jostling Arthur too much to irritate his injuries.

After a few more minutes of walking, Alfred finally makes it to England's room, opening the door with only minor difficulty. He pushes the door shut behind him with his foot before pivoting towards the direction of the bedside. At first, he doesn't see England resting on top of the mattress, his heart sinking in his chest. It's only then that he rests his eyes on the faint outline of the figure lying underneath.

Alfred sets Arthur down next to him for a moment, resting him against the side of the bed-frame to keep him upright. He then bends down to examine England, apparently asleep while snuggled up in Alfred's jacket. Moving his arms under him, Alfred gently lifts him out from underneath the bed, resting him on its surface as he doesn't stir in the slightest.

_Good, he needs some rest...except...where do I put Arthur down, now?_

Picking Arthur back up into his arms, Alfred sighs quietly, deciding that the best thing he can do is sit down on the edge of the bed and sit Arthur in his lap. Arthur holds onto Alfred's shirt tightly as he cradles him in his lap. Careful not to move him, Alfred uses his free hand to gently shake England's shoulder.

"England, wake up, I'm back... Uh, wait... I mean _this world's_ England, wake up... Um..." He looks back and forth between Arthur and England before sighing. "...This is gonna be _so_ confusing in the long run, I can just see it already." He's honestly not sure what he's going to do about England—now that he has Arthur back, the thought of acting as openly affectionate towards England as he had before seems odd and embarrassing to him, especially in front of Arthur. It makes him feel like he's blatantly cheating on Arthur, even if the two of them are basically the same person. But on the flip side, he can't bring himself to just _stop_ showing England affection now that he has Arthur back, because then he'll feel like a horrible person... Making England think that he was only acting that way towards him because he's Arthur's alternate self and not because he honestly wanted to help him. _Fuck, what am I getting myself into...?_

Arthur hears Alfred speak his formal name, opening one green iris lazily. The sight before him causes him to widen his eyes in shock.

_There.. That's me.. Well, not me entirely but..._

He blinks at his other self, pressing his face into Alfred's shirt as he gazes. It feels horribly surreal as England begins to stir, Arthur finding it surprisingly hard to watch. England's eyes open slowly, his duller greens matching Arthur's bright ones. His expression nearly mirrors Arthur's as soon as he fully sheds the sleep from his body and mind. England holds tighter to the jacket, slightly shaking, his gaze flickering away in a sense of... Fear, was that?

Arthur narrows his eyes. "...I hope you...realize.." His voice, starting out so caustic, dulled to a softer tone as it dawns on him—_this is what my other self has gone through for years_. He doesn't have the heart to finish his sentence, breaking off awkwardly. England's face is pale, and he can't bear to look back at either Alfred or Arthur.

Arthur sighs, diverting his attention. He didn't expect... _this_, and although he feels guilty for this world's England, he also feels selfish for being angry. Arthur eyes the jacket that this world's England is clutching, quickly shifting his gaze away. _...He deserves a rescue. He deserves kindness... Just like it's been shown to me. _

Alfred bites his lip as his eyes flicker back and forth between the two of them, the air in the room suddenly filled with tension—or maybe it was just him? Regardless, he got the feeling that these two might not end up being the best of friends, to say the least... Especially if they're both in love with him.

_This is one fucked up love triangle, I'll say that much... _

Alfred reaches out his free hand and gently turns England's face so that the two of them are staring eye-to-eye. "The three of us are here, and I'd like for us to get going as fast as possible... How do we get back home? I remember you saying that the magic would run out... Does this mean that we have to wait it out, or is there any way for us to get out of here faster?" He turns his head to glance at the door nervously, a frown on his face. "Because now we've got that damn commie to worry about on top of the bastard that hurt the both of you..." He still can't bring himself to refer to America as his alternate self, not wanting any sort of association between himself and that monster.

"...H-How did you work the spell?" Arthur prods him after England doesn't answer, keeping a steady gaze.

England frowns, looking shyly at the both of them, face pale. "...It's... It has to run out. I doubt I—or you, for that matter—have enough between us to initiate a return trip..." He finally speaks, awfully quiet. England's disposition turns pained when he switches to speaking of the USSR. "...N-No... He's here?" he shudders, drawing the jacket closer to him in terror.

Without even thinking, Alfred reaches out his free hand—his other arm still wrapped gently around Arthur and holding him against his chest—and runs his fingers through England's hair. "Don't worry, I'm not going to let him hurt you, I promise. Not him, not _anyone_."

Arthur's eyes flash when Alfred moves to comfort England, feeling utterly ridiculous for the jealousy running through his body. This... What was this? The whole scene makes Arthur sick—that's what fear at his purest form looks like, that's what lasting abuse and torture looks like... Even worse was the fact that he had to see it on _his_ features. It was ethereal. "...Yes. I don't think we'd have enough magic in this state, Alfred. I'm sorry." He shifts, trying to ease the lasting pain from his wounds. "...We'll have to lie low... Do you have any idea for how long?" he asks his other self, who only shakes his head in response. Suppressing irritation, he sighs. "Then you'll have to guide us around the manor."

Alfred frowns slightly as Arthur speaks. "It's fine. Waiting it out's gonna be a bit tricky, though... Maybe I should just go downstairs and kick the commie bastard out so we have one less problem to deal with. He said he's gonna be waiting downstairs, and that was a while ago. He might have already started roaming around again, and if we're moving around and we run into him..." He sighs. "Not to mention the fact that I doubt either of you are in any condition to be walking around this place to begin with, and as much as I'd like to, it'd be a bit difficult for me to carry you both without ending up accidentally hurting either of you. So I guess I'll just go downstairs, kick the bastard out, come back here, and stand guard near the door or something until we can get back home."

Moving an inch, Arthur goes to say, "...No, Alfred. It's too dangerous by yourself" right as England speaks up with, "N-No... You'll get hurt." The both of them make awkward eye contact before shifting their gazes away, unsure of what to follow that up with. England relaxes into Alfred's touch, holding his jacket close as Arthur refuses to look.

Chuckling slightly as they both speak in unison, Alfred finds that they are saying pretty much the same thing. "I'll be fine. I'm the hero, remember? I can handle myself just fine, don't worry." He gently pulls Arthur a bit closer to him and kisses the top of his head, hoping to cheer him up at least a little bit. Arthur scowls as Alfred kisses the top of his head, barely having it in him to stay mad. It was too exhausting at the moment.

Alfred glances back at England to make sure he's still alright, his fingers still running soothingly through England's hair. "I'm more concerned about leaving you two alone, really..." _For more than one reason..._ He just barely holds back a groan. _I figured Arthur would end up getting jealous if I started acting affectionate towards England... I really don't wanna come back to a catfight... Or whatever the male equivalent of two guys fighting over a guy is._

Arthur heaves a heavy sigh. "...I... I'm not okay with this at all. What if he finds you out and we aren't there to help you?" he says, voice unnerved. "...No. You're not going with him. We should just stay here."

"Arthur, I hate to break this to you, but I highly doubt that either of you are in any condition to help me out, especially against two empires. I'd rather just have one less problem to deal with."

England tilts his head, cutting in. "...A-Alfred, if you were to get rid of him, you know you would have to... You would have to act as my Master," he says, his voice shaking. When he sees Alfred's expression look slightly nonplussed, he adds, cringing, "...You'd have to bring your pet along. My Master always brought his pet."

Arthur's eyes view England's shivering form and he feels completely nauseated, forcing himself to steel his gaze and look down at his bandaged hands. _M-Master...? How... How pathetic...on my part, and America's. To stoop so low...and for me to break like this. I'm pathetic._

As England's words sink in, Alfred feels himself start to grow equally as nauseous as Arthur's expression lets on. "No. I-I'll just say that... Fuck, I don't know. I'll just say that I didn't feel like bringing you or something! There's got to have been at least _one_ time where he didn't bring you or something, right?" He scowls slightly. "I don't want that bastard anywhere near you... Anywhere near _either_ of you. I never trusted him back home, and I sure as hell don't trust him here." He glances towards the door as he hears what sounds like people running around. His frown deepens, speaking quietly. "...Fuck. Why do I get the feeling that the commie sent out a fucking search party for me? Now I _have_ to go, don't I? Damn bastard..." He glances back at England, conflicted—he doesn't want to bring England with him, but now he suddenly feels put under pressure.

England matches his gaze with fear. "You have to. My Master has never gone to greet him without me. It would be an immediate red flag..." He is trembling, and Arthur feels like a coward at the sight of it.

Alfred starts to hear a few servants tentatively calling out for their "Master," and he lets out an annoyed sigh, starting to feel frustrated from all of the pressure that he was being put under from all sides. "Alright, fine, then let's just go and get this over with—but I'm going to carry you this time. I refuse to use..._those_ again." He glares at the collar and leash lying on the floor, as if willing them to burn and turn to dust.

_He's so much stronger than I am, and so much more deserving of Alfred's kindness._ "...W-Wait. Then, if you two are going, what should I do?" he asks, feeling completely useless in the moment. _That's because you are. You're useless like this._ England watches him curiously, still shaking, and Arthur glares at the comforter, clenching his teeth. "Y-You can't just leave me to do bloody _nothing_."

Alfred's glare fades as he turns his attention back to Arthur, but he's still feeling a bit frustrated. "And what exactly do you want to do, Arthur? Come with me so that the commie and everyone else here can see that there are two of you running around this world? ...I know you want to help, Arthur, but not only will it be bad if someone sees two of you guys here... You're also still badly hurt, and I don't want you to hurt yourself even more by trying to walk around. Just stay here and wait until we get back. Hopefully this shouldn't take more than a few minutes."

England slowly attempts to rise, shakily falling towards Alfred. "Y-You'll have to find good reason... If you don't use the leash. You must use the collar. He's never... He's never removed it. Not once."

Alfred frowns, worried, as England attempts to move. "Careful..." He moves his arm from around Arthur and uses both arms to help steady England.

Arthur, on the other hand, shifts out of Alfred's lap so he's on the bed, allowing him to better tend to England and move. "Fine." He glances away, realizing he probably couldn't walk with his knee in this state anyway. It didn't mean it stung any less to know he had to abdicate Alfred's side—letting him go into danger alone, especially after he had rescued him. England fits right into Alfred's arms, and Arthur feeling an unpleasant pressure in his chest, keeping his eyes down. Something lands in his lap, and he moves his gaze over to see it, noticing Alfred's jacket. He looks up to see England, shyly offering the faintest smile at him.

"...You should hold onto it. Not me."

Arthur swallows, nodding hesitantly. "Ah... Yes. I suppose so."

Alfred carefully picks England up after he drops his jacket into Arthur's lap. _Well, at least one of them is willing to play nice with the other..._ "England, I'm not exactly thrilled, but if you say that you have to have it on..." He obviously looks upset, and he feels completely sick to his stomach... But he reminds himself that this is so that he can get the Soviet Union out of here so that he doesn't have to worry about him finding them and making an already bad situation even worse. He walks over to where the collar and leash are lying on the floor and bends down to the floor, gently putting England down for a second as he moves to get the collar. He unhooks the leash from it with an disgusted look on his face before wordlessly handing it over to England. "...Let's just get this over with before I literally throw up, because this whole mess is making me sick and I don't know how much more of this I can put up with."

He waits until England has the collar on before he moves—first over to Arthur to lift his head slightly and give him a quick yet completely affectionate peck on the lips, and then over to England to gently pick him back up. "We'll be back... Hopefully in just a few minutes. J-Just... Please don't try and move from the room or anything, alright? I don't want you to hurt yourself..." He looks at Arthur with a sincerely worried expression.

Arthur stares blankly back at the jacket in his lap, unsure of what to say from here. He feels Alfred's lips on his, and he offers a small, pained smile. In reality, he's terrified of being left here alone. He wants so desperately to go with Alfred, to call out with him—it takes all the strength his has to bite his tongue and keep his hands in his lap, clenching tightly to the jacket. England trembles at the weight of the collar on his neck, and Arthur feels awful for him. He had only received a taste of America's wrath and sadism, while England had three lifetimes and then some. Arthur doesn't say anything in return to Alfred, simply nodding.

The two of them vacate the room, leaving Arthur alone in a room that very well could have been his if things had gone differently. Leaning back against the pillow, he closes his eyes, hearing their footsteps move down the hall... thus submerging him in the silence that only his thoughts can fill.

_ It's all too much, too much, too bloody much..._

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**A/N: **The next chapter is a **big** one, so it may take me longer to work through it!**_  
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	9. Alfred and England, Arthur and America

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay! I have been at a long music festival down in my city and am generally very busy at this time.

Hopefully this chapter will make up for the wait!

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England serves as the quiet navigator, as well as the key to getting Alfred through this house without suspicion. He holds tight to Alfred, telling him which way to go at the various points needed, while Alfred forges a wide path by glaring at any of the servants that even just _glance_ at him. The thought of _Ivan_ alone always put him in a foul mood, and everything that's happening in this world is not making his mood any better.

He finally gets down to the first floor and pauses before going near the dining room, whispering to England. "I'm sorry about this, but we really don't have time for the commie to be asking so many questions about why I'm carrying you... I'm just going to put you down here and you can just follow me into the dining room. Just stay close to me, alright? And don't worry, I won't let that bastard harm a single hair on your head. He'll have to go through me to get to you, and I'm not gonna go down that easy."

As they come slightly closer to the door, England trembles at the voices traveling from the dining room. They are very, very distinct to him. Each small syllable brings back horrible memories, England's shaking turning violent. Alfred catches onto this, kissing the top of England's head. He waits for England to offer a small, frightened nod before he moves to gently set England down on the ground. When Alfred sets him down, England notices he clings a little too long to Alfred's shirt, not wanting to be let go of under any circumstances. It's the fact that he knows he has to that burns so badly.

Alfred stands back up, steeling his gaze once more as he moves towards the dining room, England rights himself on his hands and knees, head down as he wills himself to try and gain a sense of calm. It doesn't work at all, the lingering effect of the kiss barely minimizes his fear.

_No no no..._ He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to get a deep breath as he crawls after Alfred. _Please don't let him see me.. Please..._

Stealing a glance down at England, Alfred feels his heart breaking as he sees how scared he is. He wills his expression to remain cold in the face of the oncoming danger, not that it's too difficult, considering who he's walking towards.

The Soviet Union is sitting at the dining room table, calmly sipping a cup of tea. He looks up as Alfred and England enter the room, smiling widely.

"Ah, there you are! I was beginning to get worried that you forgot about me, Mr. America! Come, sit down!"

England doesn't dare lift his head—doing so would be considered an act of defiance. He crawls until Alfred comes to a halt, waiting dutifully as he exchanges words with the Soviet Union. Alfred, for his part, glares coldly at the Soviet Union.

"Shut up. Don't tell me what to do in my own fucking home, commie."

The Soviet Union merely laughs before glancing down at England, who trembles at the icy eyes that travel up and down the expanse of his body. The scrutiny the Soviet Union's gaze holds chills him, causing him to shift—the smallest of movements—instinctively towards Alfred in complete and total fear. The Soviet Union lets his eyes linger a while longer, taking his time to draw his look back up to Alfred, disposition not unlike that of a curious child.

"How odd! Your pet seems to be missing his leash!"

The intensity of England's trembling only heightens at this, an icy grip of terror clenching his heart. _He knows... He knows... Alfred...!_

Alfred's response, however, is immediate, not even giving the Soviet Union the chance to try and think of any reasons as to why England was without a leash.

"What the hell do you _think_, happened? I had to wait until he healed enough to walk since I didn't feel like dragging his bloody body around and ruining my floors, so I didn't have the chance to grab his leash—because I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer, of course." The last part of his sentence is spit out with obvious sarcasm, but the Soviet Union remains completely nonplussed.

"Why don't you sit down and have something to drink? You seem stressed."

"Damn right I'm fucking stressed! But if it'll shut you up... Fucking commie..."

Alfred walks over to the chair opposite of the Soviet Union and sits down, England following after him and moving under the table to stay on his hands and knees by Alfred's feet, Prussia mirroring England next to the Soviet Union. England notices how Alfred's responses are all something akin to what his Master would say, causing him to shiver. He trails his eyes up to Prussia's, having not seen him in quite some time. Their once vibrant red is now quite muddled into a murky brown, the color of dried blood. His eyes rest on England but they aren't _there_... _He_ isn't there.

Drawing his eyes away, England drops his gaze to the floor. He knows attempting to listen to the conversation—or appearing as if he was, anyway—would be punishable... If not Alfred, then the Soviet Union would quickly catch his error. He can't help the shivers that continue to assault his frame, struggling to keep himself from detection by the Soviet Union—to keep _Alfred_ from detection.

Alfred feels sick past his facade at how England is pretty much being forced to act, especially because Alfred can practically feel how badly England's shaking even though he isn't even touching him. In no less than a second after he sits down, a servant comes and shakily sets a cup of tea in front of him.

_Earl Grey. Oh, the fun never ends, does it? Like I don't feel like shit enough as it is._

The servant quickly retreats, leaving the two nations alone. Alfred picks up his cup and takes a sip before speaking.

"...Look, if you can tell that I'm stressed, then why the hell don't you just do me a favor and leave already?"

The Soviet Union frowns sadly. "But I came all this way just to see you! Can't we at least have a little fun first?"

Alfred raises an eyebrow. "...'Fun?'"

There is something about that word to England. The word that, if said by anyone else other than America or the Soviet Union, he wouldn't have even thought twice of. Yet _their_ connotation... It is so god awfully wrong.

He nearly collapses at the magnitude of his shaking, eyes flickering fearfully to Prussia. They had been forced to "play" with one another on occasion. All the horrors of past sessions flood his mind. The pain, the torment, the begging for it to stop, that he didn't want any of this... It all went rather well to the tune of classical music while America and the Soviet Union gazed on as if it were an opera, drinking wine they had stolen from France and laughing jovially. The only thing that seemed missing in that scene being the opera glasses and a fancy theater box overlooking them.

Not quite understanding that very same meaning, Alfred feels England's slight shaking change to violent trembling. As discretely as he can, he leans over, putting one elbow on the table and resting his face on his hand as if he were bored. Instead, he moves his other hand under the table, finding England's head and running his fingers through England's hair in an attempt to calm him down.

England notices the tears building up at the corners of his eyes, right as Alfred's fingers weave their way amongst his locks. He shudders at first, biting back a whimper before he realizes who is _comforting_ him—not harming him. England relaxes very slightly. _Alfred will protect me... He'll protect me..._

"Didn't I already tell you that I'm not in the mood to deal with you or your games?" Alfred says coarsely.

The Soviet Union giggles in response. "Oh, but it's your favorite game! Watching our pets 'play' with each other! I'll even let my pet be in control this time, since I know how much you love to see your pet be dominated, to hear him scream in pain and fear, to—"

"Get out."

"...Huh?"

Alfred moves his hand away from England and sits back up, taking a sip of his tea with a seemingly calm expression on his face. Yet, inwardly? Inwardly, he's seeing red. He's beyond seeing red, actually—he was just barely able to stop himself from jumping across the table and beating the shit out of the Soviet Union the and there. He calmly puts the teacup back down, the normally quiet noise of the cup against the table resounding through the silent room. He speaks again, his voice quiet, but his words laced with so much ice and venom that the Soviet Union actually starts to shake.

"...You're a fucking idiot, aren't you? You just can't take a fucking hint. I don't want to deal with you. Get the fuck out. Before I kick you out myself. And you and I both know that you don't want that, because you know what that will entail."

The Soviet Union flinches nervously and nods shakily. "I-I'm sorry, Mr. America... P-Perhaps some other time then, d-da?"

Alfred doesn't even reply, continuing to stare coldly at the Soviet Union, his expression clearly saying, "I'm giving you five seconds to get out of my sight before I get you out of my sight myself."

Ever so quick to respond, the Soviet Union tugs roughly on Prussia's leash, heading out of the dining room. "B-Bye, Mr. America!" He disappears from sight, saving England from a round of humiliation and torture.

Yet Alfred's stare scares England, even as he feels Prussia and the Soviet Union disappear. England curls his legs up into his chest, struggling for a good breath.

Alfred only lets his cold expression fade slightly when he's sure the Soviet Union has left and isn't planning on coming back. He lets out a sigh. "About fucking time..." He pulls his chair out and carefully slides down to the floor and under the table to find England's shaking form, England's eyes squeezed shut tight. England inches back is he moves towards him. "...England... I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you that badly..." He crawls a bit more under the table to make his way over to England before pulling him against his chest, running his fingers through England's hair and kissing the top of England's head. "It's alright England, you're safe. Don't worry, it's just me... It's just Alfred..."

The hands that embrace England are gentle and kind, and the touches against his hair are loving. It's unlike any follow up to any meeting with the Soviet Union that he's ever experienced. He wants to make sure it is not a dream, quickly easing into Alfred's arms to see if he's real. Feeling his sturdy frame under his frail fingers, England lets out a choked noise, burying his face in Alfred's shirt. The terror unclogs like a dam as he gives silent sobs, wanting to wash all the painful memories away.

_ They're gone... They're gone.. You're almost home free..._

Yet as England thinks that, there is something gnawing at the back of his mind... Something that tethered him to this place. Something that, try as he might, he couldn't begin to feel any hatred for...

Something that increasingly drew nearer and nearer to him with each passing moment.

Just a minute or so after Alfred enters the dining room with England, America storms into the house, quietly seething and covered from head to toe in blood.

_Fucking rebels... Goddamn fucking rebels... _

He storms upstairs, pushing any servants that don't get out of his way fast enough to the side and into the walls harshly without a second thought. He heads straight for the torture room, intending on taking his frustrations out on his new pet, but when he finally gets there... All he finds is an empty room and an open first aid kit.

America merely stands there and stares in shock for a minute or two, unable to figure out what could have possibly happened before turning around and storming away from the room, even angrier than before.

_Where... the fuck... is he? He thinks he can get away with disobeying me? When I find him, I don't give a fuck, I'm going to kill that disobedient, pathetic little bastard, as well as whoever the fuck helped him. _

He knew for a fact that his new pet had to have received help from someone, as there was no way that he would've been able to take care of himself in the state that America had left him in. Yet it was just a question of who the hell would have the balls to go and touch _his_ pet without his permission, help _his_ pet without his permission, move _his_ pet without his permission... He harshly grabs the first servant that he sees before she can run away.

"Where the fuck is my pet? Answer me, _now_."

"I-I-I d-don't k-know, M-M-Master... I-I thought he w-was in his c-chambers, s-since you just came from t-t-there not too l-long ago..."

America scowls and throws the woman against the wall across from him in frustration. "Lies! I haven't been here for the past few hours, you idiot!" He scowls, but decides to head towards his pet's chambers regardless, storming through the halls and throwing his servants out of his way, only slightly relishing in their screams that filled the hallways—the screams that he truly wanted to hear were from two beings only: his pet, and whoever helped his pet.

From the location of America's wrathful desire, Arthur lies on the bed, clutching Alfred's jacket to the best of his ability. His hands are still in excruciating pain, Arthur relaxing against the bed and letting his mind wander.

How many times did this world's England wake up and hope? Did he even hope? How many times to he cry himself to sleep like this... Over America?

Arthur feels the comforter absently, his heart hurting. _...Alfred can give him what he deserves. He can give him happiness... And he should._ Arthur keeps the pressure off of his ribs as he relaxes against the wall backing up to the bed, sighing as tears spill down his cheeks. He brushes at them with his arm as quick as they come, frowning. _...What could you possibly be crying for? Your selfishness will destroy any chance for England to live a happier life. You're slowly killing him. Slowly killing Alfred..._

This whole thing was a complete nightmare to Arthur, causing him to force back anymore tears. Now that he and Alfred had found each other... How would this work with a third party? Alfred needed to give each of them care—albeit different for either of them but... Still. Was Arthur selfish for wanting all that care for himself?

Sitting in an unfamiliar room, he realizes now why he has never told Alfred beforehand that he loved him. It's because he doesn't feels as if he _deserves_ a love like that. He's selfish, isn't he? Selfish people don't deserve selfless love, or a selfless lover like Alfred.

There's sudden movement outside the door, Arthur sitting up. _That was fast... But I can't go to him. I have to push him to England. It's him, or it's me. Three is most definitely a crowd... _It pains him that he has to let his only rescue fade, so much so that his eyes are drowning in tears. He wipes them off of his face right as the door slams open, flying off its hinges.

America stands in the doorway, seeing red as he finds his new pet sitting on his old pet's bed, trembling and desperately trying to inch backwards away from him. The blood drains completely from Arthur's body as his fear spikes, his body launching into severe tremors. He is unable to say anything, only able to shake his head vigorously. His body continues to scoot back on the bed, Arthur desperately trying to calculate an escape route. Arthur feels ill—just the sight of America makes him want to wretch, the blood staining his uniform and skin overwhelming and horrifying.

"...Now then... I could have _sworn_ I told you to stay put, did I not?" America slowly stalks forward, like a predator slowly closing in on its prey. He's about to grab hold of Arthur and toss him across the room when he suddenly pauses, finally taking note of the jacket that Arthur's wearing. His eyes narrow, but a large portion of his anger fades in the face of confusion and surprise, _something_ flashing in his eyes as he slowly speaks. His voice remains cold, but it seems as if it's more forced than anything.

Arthur braces himself, but there's nothing. No hit... No pain. He takes in the intriguing look that lies in America's eyes, glancing over the jacket.

"...That jacket...Where the fuck did you find that jacket? I burned that a long time ago... I _know_ I did... So how...?" His eyes widen slightly. "Unless..." A slow smirk slides onto his face, and he lets out a harsh laugh. "Of course! How didn't I see it sooner... _He's_ here, isn't he? The 'America' from your world? Oh, this is just too perfect... I bet he still runs around, trying to play hero like an idiot..." There's a very, _very_ slight trace of both bitterness and nostalgia in his tone, but it's gone as fast as it comes, a malicious grin sliding onto his face. "...How about we go and find him? I'd love to meet my alternate self."

Arthur's fears are only realized when America puts two and two together—that Arthur isn't alone, that Alfred got him out of the torture chamber. America walks over to a drawer, Arthur desperately trying to crawl off the bed. The inability to use his hands correctly or walk for that matter make it rather difficult. He doesn't even get to the mattress' edge before America comes back, savagely clicking a collar to its tightest around his neck. The room dips on Arthur. Wearing a collar... It was so utterly degrading that Arthur wants to vomit. He tries to fight back with his damaged limbs, strength reduced while he trembles violently, tears spilling over his eyelids and onto his cheeks.

America's malicious grin widening as he sees the fear and repulsion in Arthur's expression. "Oh come now, you can't tell me you didn't expect this." He ignores Arthur's protests and struggling as he clips the leash onto the collar.

"Let me go!" Arthur screams as best as he can with his hoarse voice, the leash attaching while America pins him, inciting a fresh wave of pain from his wrist as well as a subsequent nausea. Without warning, he is ripped from the bed's surface by an inhumane tug on the leash. Arthur falls, landing on his hands and knees, screaming as his voice dips in and out from his damaged vocal chords. His knee sears a burning hot fire, radiating up and down his body as he continues to choke-sob and cry out.

"Do try and keep up, it's very annoying to have to drag a pet along, you know." Not even caring that Arthur's kneecap is still broken, America starts to walk out of the room, tugging roughly on the leash to make sure that Arthur is following him.

"Another America... I wonder, will I be able to break him too?"America contemplates aloud, weighing all the delightful options that seem to have fallen into his lap. _No, that would be just odd, having myself as a pet... But I could still have some fun torturing his England in front of him..._

Arthur wants it to stop, begging for America to just kill him already—it won't even matter, as America is vigilant in his search for Alfred, dragging Arthur behind him. The comment about Alfred sets him off even more than anything else, unable to even think of what horrible things America would do to him.

"_No_! Leave him alone!" he cries, the collar constricting his airway and cutting his voice out. "I'll do _anything_! _Stop_!"

Arthur is forced to move into a crawling position to even dare hope of breathing. Every subtle movement carries the feeling of being stabbed with thousands of knives at once, skin peeled layer by layer, each nerve painfully severed. He is forced to keep up as he's choked, shuddering and whimpering while he crawls to the guidance of savage tugs on the leash.

_Alfred... Run..._

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**A/N: **I am not sure when I can get the next chapter uploaded with this hectic schedule, but I will do my best. Thank you very much for reading and reviewing.**_  
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	10. Crossroads

**A/N:** Oh man, I am very sorry this took me long haha. Very busy over here. Hope the wait was worth it!

**Warning here:** This chapter is uh... heavy on the angst (if it wasn't already? you tell me) so if you have issues with that... I don't know what to say. XD Do what you gotta do, man.

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The entirety of the room is drenched in a heavy silence at the Soviet Union's dismissal. England cradles himself into Alfred's arms, the latter gently running his fingers through England's hair as he speaks in a calm, soothing tone. He peels the collar off of England as carefully as he can, casually ripping it in half before letting it fall to the ground.

"It's okay, it's alright, you're safe now, I've got you, don't worry, you're safe, shh, shh..." Alfred continues to gently comfort England until he's sure he's calmed down before he speaks. "...C'mon. Let's get going, I'm worried about—"

Alfred's head snaps up as he hears screaming, England wincing.

_That's my voice_, the frail man thinks, body shaking. Beside him, Alfred lets go of his body in order to quickly move out from under the table and stand back up.

"Oh God... Please don't tell me..." Alfred hardly has the time to finish or notice as England scrambles to follow him, still on his hands and knees, or even have the chance to ask England if he's alright. All of his words are helplessly caught in his throat at a sight that makes him nearly vomit on the spot.

Into his vision enters a near clone of himself, covered from head to toe in blood, walking calmly into the dining room. The two Americas' eyes meet, both reflecting the shock that they feel upon seeing each other. There's a moment of silence as the two Americas merely stare at one another, before Alfred finally tears his eyes away from his doppelganger and down to the leash in his hand, attached to...

"A-Arthur...You bastard! _Let him go_!" Alfred glares coolly at America, shaking with anger and fear for Arthur's well-being as tears start to prick the corners of his eyes. America merely laughs in response, the sound of his own voice making for such a dark, malicious sound that it sends a chill down Alfred's spine.

That laugh causes England to inch back in alarm, hiding behind Alfred. _No, no, no..._

His Master. England didn't meet his eyes, following Alfred's gaze to Arthur, forced to be dragged in his situation. England knew all too well how that felt. When it was physically impossible to keep going, America made sure you had absolutely no choice but to follow. Arthur is trembling, tears streaming down his face as his breaths come out in short gasps, the pain on his face nearly allowing England to get a sense of how he was suffering.

Gritting his teeth, Arthur attempts to move across the floor. As if on reflex, America gives him a little tug back to his side. Arthur whimpers while trying to quickly keep pressure off his shattered kneecap, also trying to drown his cries before they echo off the walls of the vast dining room. Arthur is shaking to the same degree as England, yet there's this certain peculiarity to seeing yourself in a sate such as this that causes England to hold his gaze. This is what he must have looked like every time America dragged him around abused as he was.

America continues his tirade, tilting his head. "Oh, but if I'm a bastard, then what does that make you? We _are_ the same person, after all."

Alfred's glare turns even more venomous as he practically spits out, "I'm _nothing_ like you!"

America merely laughs again. "Nothing like me, you say? Hmm, yes, I suppose that's true. I bet in your world, you're still that loudmouthed idiot that everyone merely laughs at, and that no one respects, am I right?"

Alfred's face flushes in humiliation, hearing those kinds of words being said in such a cruel tone by his own voice feeling even worse than if he'd heard them from anyone else. "T-That's not true!" Alfred shakes his head before going back to glaring at America, scowling. "Look, I'm not here to make fucking conversation with you—give me Arthur back, _now_."

"Do you _really_ want this pathetic little thing back _that_ badly?"

"Shut the fuck up! He isn't pathetic, you bastard! He's strong, so much stronger than I could ever be. He's the person I've looked up to my entire life and, if your past is the same as mine, then he's the person that _you_ looked up to as well!"

Arthur doesn't even bother to lift his head when America calls him pathetic, even at Alfred's defense of him. England knows how he feels—he doesn't agree with anything but the fact that he's in a useless state at the moment, and nothing is more harrowing than that.

America rolls his eyes. "Why bother worrying about the past? It's the past for a reason—you put it behind you and look towards the future, and all I see in the future is myself growing more powerful, and my pet growing more pathetic."

Alfred scowls, but before he can respond, America turns his attention away from Alfred and instead moves his gaze downward, resting on England's shaking form. Alfred steps in front of England protectively, and he feels England press his head shakily against the back of his leg in response, obviously in a poor attempt to hide from America. America smiles darkly.

His Master's voice is chilling to England, yet there's a sense of longing that he feels, a slight pull towards him. As if on cue, he edges his eyes upwards to connect with America's just as they sweep over England's form, making his former pet cringe.

"Don't think that I don't see you there, my disobedient little pet. You naughty little thing, causing _all_ of this _trouble_ for everyone here."

_I'm a bad pet, Master. I failed you. I failed you, Master. _England cannot help but flinch reflexively.

Alfred steps up to defend England, nails biting into his palms. "It's not his fault! He was only trying to get away from you, and for good reason too. Look at what you've done to him, what you've done to _this world's_ Arthur, what you've done to _my world's_ Arthur! It's fucking sick! Of _course_ he'd want to fucking get away from all of this!"

America glares coldly at Alfred, who, to America's surprise, matches his glare with a nearly identical glare of his own. America speaks up in retaliation. "He is my pet, I am his Master. I don't see what business you have telling me how to treat my pet."

England attempts to hide out of shame and fear, moving behind Alfred's leg. America's words send a shiver through England's body, something akin to desire and near disgust with himself. _Master. I'm so sorry. Please take me back._

"_He's not your fucking pet_!" Alfred yells back, just barely able to push his tears back.

England cowers at the sudden yell as Arthur does the same, both of them not able to tell the difference between Alfred or America's yelling. The action is not lost on Alfred, and he immediately feels guilty for having raised his voice and scared them. Mindful of his volume, he continues in a quieter voice, although not less angrier in the slightest.

"He's a living, breathing person—hell, you can't even treat a fucking _animal_ as badly as you treated him! It's just _wrong_!"

"...Why do you bother concerning yourself with how I treat my pet?"

"Because I can't just stand by and watch someone be hurt and scared and in pain. Especially not Arthur. Whether it's the Arthur from my world, or this world, or _any_ world. I'd never be able to live with myself if I didn't do something to help. If you're truly me, then I have no idea how you even sleep at night with the knowledge of everything you've done."

America laughs darkly. "Well, then I suppose it's a good thing that I gave up that pathetic side of me a long time ago! The side that was compassionate and caring and wanted to be a hero... Look at where it's gotten you! I was perfectly content to let this switch go, and settle for having a new pet to play with! Why would you bother going through all of this trouble? There's no difference between the two of them, except that I already broke in the one you received."

Alfred closes his eyes, pursing his lips slightly in thought before letting out a quiet sigh. "...I'm sorry about this, England. Please don't get too upset with me."

Taking not of the manner in which his voice lowers as he addresses him, England tilts his head upward shyly, confused. _Upset with you...?_

Drawing his eyes away, Alfred raises his voice to a normal volume while glaring at America. "You wanna know why I went through all this trouble? Because I love Arthur—and not just any Arthur, I love _my_ Arthur! The Arthur from this world is _not_ the same as the Arthur from my world, and even if I loved them both, I would never be able to love them both _the same_, since I'd only be able to be _in love_ with _my_ Arthur just like this world's Arthur would never be able to love me the same way as he loves you—I'm not even gonna start on how a sick fuck like you doesn't even come close to being worthy of being loved by anyone, _especially_ him, but I digress. My point is, like hell I'm going to leave my Arthur in the hands of a sick fuck like you."

The words coming out of Alfred's mouth sting England immensely. He lets his head drop out of complete shame.

_Not the same? Of course we aren't the same. Of course. I was foolish to think that I would ever receive any semblance of love. My Master will never love me, neither will Alfred. Ever. _Tears overwhelm his eyes and patter onto the floor, his heart aching. _I love my Master. I love him so much. Why can't he just love me back?_

America smirks, completely unfazed. "...Well then, that being the case... How about a trade?"

Alfred blinks, his anger fading as he's caught off-guard by the question. "A...A trade?"

The word "trade" alone draws England's gaze up to America in a mixture of fear and desire. Both Arthur and England shift, England realizing that the both of them want to be with the ones they love. Who is England to keep Arthur from being with Alfred?

_...I want to be with you, Master. _

He longs for it—it's twisted, but the only love he gets from his Master is pain, and if that's what it would be forever... Then he would have to deal with it. He loved him, after all.

"Yes," America says, voice doused in amusement. "You give me my disobedient little pet back, and I'll give you your little pet in exchange."

Alfred scowls, his face flushing in embarrassment. "He's not my pet! That's just fucking sick!"

America rolls his eyes and waves his free hand flippantly. "Details, details. Do you accept my offer or not?"

"Fuck no! I'm taking _both_ Arthurs home with me!"

America barks a short laugh. "I'm surprised, it seems that we're more alike than I first thought! So selfish."

"I'm not being fucking selfish! I'm taking them both away from you, to somewhere that they'll both be safe—_safe_ from you!"

America speaks, ignoring Alfred. "Well, if we're talking being selfish, then I suppose it _would_ be nice to have two pets instead of just one." He looks down at England, who flinches instinctively. "Come here, pet. Now. That's an order."

America orders him to his side, and England begins to move out of routine more than anything else. Taking not of this, Alfred quickly speaks up, turning to face England with a sincere and determined expression on his face.

"England, don't. You don't have to listen him! Just stay behind me, I'll protect you, I swear!"

He looks between them, utterly conflicted. _...Kindness with Alfred. Kindness but never love... Or pain with America. And love... _With a violent shaking and an aversion to angering Alfred, England scoots back to his original position.

At this, Alfred feels relief wash over him. However, there's a bad taste in his mouth at the sight of the tears in England's eyes, as if a part of him really _did _want to go back to America.

_I'm... I'm doing the right thing, right?_ He shakes his head slightly. _Of course I am! England wouldn't have been so desperate to stay by me this whole time if he didn't want to go back home with me, right?_ He turns back around fully at America, who has a furious glare of his own on his face.

"You will pay dearly for that later, my little pet..."

Tears spilling from his eyes, England drops his head with a quiet sob. _Will there even be a later for you and I, Master...?_

"He won't pay for anything, you bastard, because I won't let you hurt him. I won't let _anyone_ hurt him anymore."

America scowls, before calming down, his scowl slowly morphing into a smirk. "...Very well then. After all, I at least still have _one_ pet to play with."

America raises the hand holding the leash around Arthur, who begins to shake even more, looking up at Alfred. Alfred feels his heart breaking at the expression on Arthur's face, wordlessly begging him to save him, and he feels a rage like he'd ever felt before run through his entire body as he glares at America.

"I swear, if you harm even just one more hair on Arthur's head, you won't even live to regret it."

America nearly doubles over in laughter. "Oh, was that supposed to be a threat? Do you really think that you'll be able to lay even just a scratch on me?"

"A scratch? Oh, no, I was thinking more along the lines of beating the fucking shit out of you until every bone in your body is broken or until you're dead. Or both." He feels England flinch again behind him, but he's too furious to even care at this point, his protectiveness over Arthur flaring up as he scowls and glares at America, his hands already balling into fists at his sides.

America's expression doesn't falter, a malicious grin on his face. In a split second, he roughly tugs the leash forward, causing Arthur to fall forward against the ground painfully. Arthur screams hoarsely, sobbing as his crushed kneecap is forced to move once more, his broken hands cradling his fall. He collapses onto his side, not bothering to move at the overwhelming pain swallowing him up. His ribs ache against his side and nausea overcomes him, Arthur letting his cheek brush the cool floor to fight off the assaulting feverish heat.

"Whoops!" America calls with a smile. "My hand slipped!"

At the sound of Arthur's pained cries and quiet sobs, something snaps in Alfred's mind.

"Well? What are you going to do about—?"

America isn't even able to finish his sentence as, before he can even blink, Alfred has charged at him. He hits him with a punch so strong and so unexpected that it sends America flying clear across the room, slamming into the wall so hard that a crater in the shape of America's body is left into its surface as America falls to the ground, momentarily unconscious.

In the aftermath, Alfred is breathing heavily, his hands still balled into fists and his body shaking slightly as he continues to see red. He distantly hears a small whimper and turns back around, remembering about Arthur. All of his anger fades into regret, concern, and pure love as he falls to his knees right in front of Arthur. He hastily moves to take the collar off of Arthur's neck and ripping it in half so that America wouldn't be able to try and put it back on him, all the while murmuring quiet apologies and reassurances—"You're safe now... I'm here... I love you"—while gently kissing Arthur over and over again until he's sure that Arthur has calmed down.

From somewhere amongst the pain, Arthur can sense the collar being removed. He still cannot hold back a flinch at the touch, his eyes clenched shut. _No. You're lying._ Arthur weakly shakes his head. _You don't. You can't... _His eyes open and he sees the concern on Alfred's face, causing him to stop his tears from building up at all. _...He's here for me. He came back for me._

Alfred helps Arthur sit up a bit more, attempting to lift him off the floor. The pain this causes on Arthur's part is brief, yet mind-numbing. As soon as he is able to, he grips to Alfred, pressing his face into Alfred's shirt. His cries are quiet, Arthur both relieved and afraid.

_ I just want to go home. _

Alfred kisses the top of Arthur's head in response to his search for comfort before moving back over to England, who looks up at the both of them, longing and pain and regret on his face. He wants what they have. Alfred sighs and looks him in the eye, wanting England to see his sincerity. "...I'm sorry, England. I know you're probably not too happy about me hitting that bastard like that, but—"

He cuts himself off and hastily turns around as he hears a faint noise, unconsciously hugging Arthur closer to himself while stepping in front of England, determined to protect them both. America is casting debris of his form with angry swipes, shifting to a sitting position with a low growl.

Alfred swallows, trying to calculate a way out of this situation in order to keep both Arthur and England from further damage. "...He's waking up. Arthur, I'm sorry, but I'm not going to be able to do anything while holding you. I'm going to have to put you down."

England searches Alfred's face for a moment before his eyes flicker back to his Master's form on the ground. There is a light fluttering in his chest as his Master stirs, along with the knowledge that he might get to remain with him after all. _H-He's... He's okay... But do I stay with him? How do I get to his side? Should I even want something like this?_

"A-Alfred..." Arthur speaks for a moment, voice crackling and faded as if it were playing over an antique radio. He reaches out to grasp for Alfred, his eyes dim and near closing from fatigue.

Alfred silences Arthur's protests by leaning his head down slightly and kissing Arthur gently on the lips, lingering for a second or two longer than usual. After this, Alfred pulls away and bends down, setting Arthur down gently on the floor next to England, the latter not even noticing his presence as his eyes are glued on America. Alfred must wait until Arthur reluctantly lets go of him in order to stand, but once he has, Alfred turns around to face his doppelganger who is slowly starting to recover from the surprise hit.

Who did England want to walk away from this? He cannot hope to decide, sensing Arthur tense next to him, as his choice is obvious.

America has a furious—no, murderous—expression on his face, and he quickly storms towards them. "You fucking bastard! I'll kill you, I'll kill _all_ of you!"

Alfred growls, stepping forward to meet America, his eyes flashing dangerously as they almost seem to change color entirely. "I'd like to see you try, bastard. If I've gotta beat the crap out of you to make sure that they get out of here safely, then bring it on!"

The two lock eyes for only a second before it begins—neither of them bother to think of using any weapons other than their fists and feet, moving so quickly that neither Arthur nor England is able to keep track of which America is which, a fact that becomes more and more true as the fight drags on. It starts off with only America being covered with blood, but as the two of them continue beating away at each other with their superhuman strength, Alfred is slowly covered with blood as well, both his own and America's. It's impossible to tell how long the two of them are fighting for, but they're practically an even match. America may have his status as an empire on his side, but Alfred has his own superhuman strength, along with his rage, determination, and protectiveness to fuel and boost his strength and stamina, allowing him to fight on equal footing with America despite his initial shock.

Finally, one of the Americas hits the other hard enough to send the other flying, crashing not against, but _through_ a wall. One of them falls to the ground, unconscious, while the victor—it's impossible to tell whether it's America or Alfred, since both are covered with blood—stares at the damage, shaking slightly and breathing heavily.

Once he's sure that the figure on the ground is unconscious, he turns around and quickly heads towards Arthur and England, who both flinch and try and back away. England even wraps his fingers in Arthur's shirt, using him as his last line of defense. The victor stops, a slightly hurt look on his face.

"Guys, it's just me, why are you...?" He looks down at himself, realizing for the first time just how much blood he's covered in. He grimaces, taking in the smell of iron that is thick in the air. "Oh."

He hastily takes off the bloodstained suit jacket he's wearing, wiping the blood off of his hands and face using the clean parts of the inside of the jacket before tossing it to the ground, smiling softly at Arthur and England. "There, better?"

Arthur breathes out in pure relief while England's breathing hitches, both apparently realizing at the same time that the person in front of them is definitely Alfred, not America. Alfred quickly clears the rest of the distance between himself and the two of them.

_M-Master..._ Tears run down England's cheeks as he longs to see his Master, longs to make sure he's okay. Even after all he has done to England, the broken man cannot even begin to want to leave his side. His escape... If England could go back and change it, he would. If he could please his master, he would do so. Anything to get love from America... The love he could never ask of Alfred, and never ask Arthur to share.

"Alright, I don't think it'd be the best idea to stay here and wait for that bastard to wake up," Alfred mutters. "Why don't we get moving? Even if we just move around the place a bit until we can go home, it's better than just sitting here." Alfred gently wraps an arm around Arthur and hook his other arm under Arthur's legs to lift him up, halting as he turns to England. "England, I know you have trouble walking, but I can't carry you both. Can you try and walk if you hold onto me?"

England nods slowly, seeming a little out of sorts to offer a verbal response. Alfred offers him a warm smile in return, turning slightly so England can grab onto his arm, which he does.

"Okay, I'm going to stand up now, just be careful, alright? Go slowly..." He slowly starts to rise to his full height, the weight of England's hand on his elbow serving to pull the weakened man up as well. "Good, good, almost there..." Once he is fully upright, England makes the move to straighten himself out as well, tightly latched onto Alfred's arm. "There we go! We'll just take it slowly for now, since we're not in too much of a rush."

Alfred's eyes flicker across the bloodstained floor towards America's form, making sure that he's still unconscious. Seeing all he needs to see, he sets off at a gentle cantor, keeping his voice patient and soothing as he speaks.

"Just hang onto me tightly and take small steps, okay? Good, good, you're doing great..." Alfred continues to offer quiet words of encouragement and praise as they slowly make their way out of the dining room, England's steps slowly becoming more and more confident and his grip on Alfred's arm loosening slightly as he finds himself able to hold his weight better than he'd anticipated.

Yet there's still something drawing England back, something telling him that it is not time to go yet. Something more than just the sick holding his Master still has on him. That's why, while he follows Alfred, he's reluctant, throwing his gaze backward.

_ Master... Please... Should I stay with you...?_ He breaks off at the sight behind him, eyes going impossibly wide. The only thought on his mind is to just _move_, that _no this can't be happening_ as he lets go of Alfred and moves to his back.

At that very moment, there's a sound. A sound that only England catches right away, and that Arthur and Alfred catch too late.

The click of a gun, the second before a shot is fired.

Alfred feels England's hands leave his arms at almost the same time that he hears the gunshot, and it takes him a second to put two and two together and realize that he _heard_ a gunshot, but was not in any pain... Which meant...

As if in slow motion, he turns around and stares in shock at the sight of England standing behind him—_behind...but he was just right next to me...when did he...?_

To England, the firing of the gun startles him more than the shot of pain that streams through him. England's eyes are wide open in pain and shock, and a miniscule—but slowly growing—dot of red stands out blatantly on his chest from what is obviously a bullet wound. A bullet which, if one were to look closely and line up the wound with Alfred's position before turning around, would have went straight through Alfred's back and into Alfred's heart had England not taken the hit.

Arthur's eyes are glued to England in terror, unsure if the way his body is trembling comes from Alfred or from himself. There is no thought that can be warranted at the sight of himself amongst a mass of blood quickly fanning out across his torso. From above him, he can hear the noises of disbelief catching in Alfred's throat.

England struggles for breath as the bullet lodges further into his frame. Yet despite the panic and his deteriorating conscious, all his thoughts come full circle. Suddenly, everything feels like it has fit into a perfect and precarious state. England turns to Alfred with a soft smile, and the room is suddenly filled with an eerie silence, everyone merely staring at England, too shocked to move. Everyone, including America, whose arms suddenly hang limply at his sides, the gun nearly slipping out of his hand as he can bring himself to do no more than stare blankly.

The blood drips past England's lips, finding himself unable to even find the proper words to say before he collapses onto the chilled floor, blood soaking his uniform.

_Master..._

* * *

**A/N: **Alright, so my classes are starting up, so it's going to be harder and harder to update. Rest assured, I'll do my best. Thank you very much.


	11. Coming Home: Alfred and Arthur

**A/N:** Well, I just started college up again and had to move in, so updates are going to be much slower with coursework and all. I'll do my best to update! There are two parts to this chapter and this is the shorter part. Sorry! I just don't have time to write with the autumn quarter starting here.

* * *

America and Alfred both stare at England's bleeding, motionless body in shocked silence. As it is almost about to become deafening for them both, the thick silence is broken not by Alfred, but—surprisingly—by America.

"Arthur!"

Arthur's irises are completely overtaken by sadness, even more so at the visible signs of distress on America's face. There was a selfish part of him that hoped England wouldn't be able to come with him, a part that made him ashamed of himself. He would have never have wished it to end like this: himself staring at his body bleeding out on the ground. This image would haunt him forever. He knew that.

America runs over to England's body, dropping to his knees beside the blood slowly forming a puddle along the frame of England's body. "No! This wasn't supposed to happen! Get up, get _up,_ you idiot! That's an order! Get the fuck up _now_!"

"He's not going to get up." Alfred's voice is level, but there's tears streaming down his face as he stares blankly at the growing pool of blood around England. "He's still alive, but he's not going to make it. You know that already, don't you?"

"Shut up..."

"If he were a normal nation, sure, he would come back to life—"

"...Shut up..."

"—But you took that away from him. You took _everything_ away from him. Any citizens he may have had, any land he may have had, any belongings he may have had—"

"...God dammit, shut up..."

"—So he has nothing tying him down to this world... Nothing except you, the person who just severed his one and only tie to this world with a single bullet. Had anyone else killed him, he _might_ have recovered, but since it was you—"

"I said shut the fuck up!" America points his gun straight at Alfred's head, his body shaking and tears starting to pool in the corners of his eyes despite his murderous expression.

"...Alfred. Shh. Let him," Arthur murmurs softly on sight of the gun aimed at Alfred, body going slightly rigid. "D-Don't provoke him..."

Alfred, for his part, doesn't even flinch. "Do you really want to waste his last few moments trying to kill me?"

America hesitates, holding up the gun for a few more seconds, but one glance down at England—who was attempting to open his eyes and speak—makes his choice clear. He drops the gun to the floor and immediately turns to England, kneeling beside him on the cold floor.

Alfred, meanwhile, merely hugs Arthur closer to his chest before turning away from their doppelgangers, noticing a faint light surrounding himself and Arthur, a distinct sensation of magic lapping at their skin.

"Looks like we're going home..."

"…Yeah." Arthur buries his face in Alfred's shirt, not wanting the last thing he sees to be his dying breath.

Alfred knows that he should be overjoyed that they're finally going home, but to know that they're going home at the expense of England... Alfred can only feel numb at best.

The two of them disappear in a flash of light that goes completely unnoticed by America and England, the former too focused on the latter to care. As the scene of their doppelgängers fades around them, the smell of dust and old wood permeates his senses over the scent of iron they had come to know. The two of them have returned to Arthur's basement, right in the middle of the array chalked on the ground. His spell book is sprawled out on the ground, and Arthur sees the subtle signs that England had made to help Alfred.

To help _him_.

He takes a shaky breath, just wanting to go back upstairs. The sight before him is eating away at Arthur, Alfred tensing as Arthur whispers softly into the darkness.

"...Please, can we... Can we just get out of this room?"

* * *

**A/N:** Alright, big angst next chapter, just a fair warning.


	12. Coming Home: America and England

**A/N: **Sorry for the delay. This is definitely one of the hardest chapters to write without having to take a break; just a fair warning.

* * *

"Arthur, why the hell did you do that?! Why..."

America doesn't even realize that he's started crying, the cold look in his eyes finally, after all of these centuries, starting to melt away into a softer, sad, and completely terrified look.

"You can't leave me, you can't! You promised you'd never leave me. You promised me that you'd stay by my side no matter what! Please..." His voice hitches as he lets out a sob, pressing his head against England's chest. "Please don't leave me, please don't die! I'm sorry! I swear I'll be good, I'll give everything up, all of it, the entire empire, all the power, all the control, everything! Just please don't leave me!"

America can feel the nausea churning up in his stomach, realizing for the first time since the Cold War what a monster he's truly become.

"Please, Arthur. I love you. Please don't leave me..."

England starts to feel chilled. Not the kind of chill he had experienced from the times when America would leave him outside on snowy nights, collar chained up to a post like a dog. Even then, he had still loved him. Even when he lost the feeling in his limbs, the snow covering his body in his thin uniform, stomach beginning to devour itself as he hadn't eaten in days. He always was tempted to use the snow to get some water, but he knew his Master was watching him from his windows upstairs, the grandiose arching ones that overlooked the expanse of the yard.

In the morning, America would fetch a servant to drag England out of the snow, bringing him up to his room to wash him off in a cold shower before forcing him to meet America for the day. Even through that, England had still loved him. He still had hope deep down that maybe one day America would come out in the snow with a blanket and wrap him up in its warmth. Maybe he would carry him to the couch and hug him close and tell him that he was sorry and that he loved him too. Maybe he would make him a cup of tea just the way he liked it because he remembered it, because he loved England and loved the way he took his tea just because of that.

Yet every time he had hoped for that, he never had gotten it.

Every time he had silently pleaded for one touch—one gentle touch, a kiss, a smile, an "I love you"—he was met with nothing but pain. Sadness. Mocking.

He had accidentally told America he loved him once. And only once, because when he had, America had mocked him in the most horrid of ways.

_"No one loves me." _

England shudders, hearing his Master's command for him to get up: it was an order. He struggles, attempting to get on his hands and knees, but he simply collapses, frustrated tears spilling down his cheeks. He was just like a dog that had been abused—he would always come back to his Master just to be kicked.

America's words are murky, and England can feel rain... Or at least it feels that way when tiny droplets of water hit his face. That's the only thing he can feel. Everything else goes completely numb: his mind, his skin. Everything shuts down slowly, like a sigh. America is yelling in a way England has never heard him yell before. He's anguished. Upset. England has never heard him upset—as in sadness and not anger—in quite some time. Most likely because nothing's ever happened to anyone's he's ever loved.

Or at least not up until this point, because England can tell it's over. For him at least.

England isn't even in control of his own movements, so he can't do much but blink back at America lethargically as he opens his eyes. Focusing on the man above him, England can see that he is actually crying, and not trying to hide it either. His eyes strike England, the darkness in them ebbing away.

England smiles—tasting blood in his mouth—with a pained quality to it. "I don't want to take their love away from them… All that England wants is for that America to love him…and nothing more. Just like I wanted you to love me, Master. But it's too late for that."

He blinks for what feels like a second, but when he opens his eyes again, America's look has grown a little more desperate. "...I'm sorry Master. I've failed you... I have, and I don't want to leave you alone. I don't want to leave you alone." He struggles to smile up at him through crimson, taking in one last look of America like this—his eyes healthy, his expression more like the old America he used to know. He places a shaky hand to America's cheek before trailing it to his hand, closing his eyes. "This way, I'll always be with you. A part of you, just gone away. I'm yours, remember? You can't lose that... I loved you too much to leave you alone in this world... I still love you. And I don't mind, Master, if you feel like you have to punish me. I won't last long though. So you have to hurry..."

America moves to reach for England's hand on his face as England coughs blood, breathing turning fairly shallow. Before he can say anything else, England continues on, this being the most he has ever been allowed to speak to America in decades and decades.

"You love your Empire more than anything. I wouldn't want to take that from you. I'm sorry I was a bad pet, Master."

He realizes for the first time, just as he's having to _force _his body to heave breaths, that America had been calling him _Arthur_ before. Arthur and not Albion. Not pathetic, nor pet. Arthur. His name.

"…I love you, Master. I'll only ever love you."

He hesitates as he sifts through America's previous words, faintly recalling the fact that America tells him that he loves him back. Was it real? America is faintly murmuring things to him in the interval between England's broken sentences, although England cannot figure out for the life of him what America is saying.

"...No. A-Alfred..." Saying his name and not Master burns his tongue and he shakes. "...No Master, you don't have to force yourself. It's okay. I know you're going to miss a pet to play with. Master. I don't want you to forget me. I don't want you to replace me. I'm so sorry…"

England's hand grows more limp in America's by the second until his fingers slip out of their hold on his hand. When he speaks next, his voice is far away. "...So why did I do this? Because... I'll always love you, Master. So much so that I don't want you to take your own love away. That's why."

He sighs suddenly, his hand resting at his side as he goes completely still.

America is numbed at the sight of the dead body of his beloved. He finds himself running out of tears as he falls into a state of shock.

_This... This can't be happening. Please tell me that this isn't happening...please tell me that he's not really gone for good... _

He knows. He knows that as much as he hopes, and wishes, and prays... England is gone. He's never going to see England again, hear England again, touch England again, and yes, even smell or taste England again, having enjoyed the pleasure of his body against England's own on more than one occasion.

_But never with love, never out of love...why? I loved him all this time...why did I...why I did I never...? _

Still in a daze, he slowly rises to his feet before heading towards the door, no one daring to stop him—none of the servants have ever seen their Master in such a state, and none are sure how he would respond to any of their actions, including touching England's dead body, which they decide to leave until they're given explicit instructions to take it away. America walks out the mansion and lets his feet guide him—his body knows where to go, even if his mind is still a complete mess. He walks, and walks, and walks, and not a single person moves to stop him or get in his path—in fact, they move to clear a path for him, almost instinctively sensing what America is about to do even before anyone, America included, consciously realizes it.

America's feet finally stop after weeks of nonstop walking—no food, no drinks, no sleep, nothing, as he's an empire and is beyond being able to die from a lack of such things—in front of, to his surprise, the rumored main base of operations for the rebels. He has no clue how he managed to find his way here, never having been able to find it before when he'd actually been meaning to look for it, but he figures that the gods are, just this once, smiling down on him. At the very least, if they're not smiling, then they agree with what he slowly begins to realize he has to do.

He walks straight into the rebel's base completely unarmed, not even flinching as the guards open fire on him—he's completely numb at this point, not even able to feel pain, and his empire status makes him nearly impervious to any serious damage from simple guns. He just continues to walk straight ahead, and the guards eventually cease firing and stare at him in confusion as he walks right past them, not even trying to attack. They follow after him, guns pointed and at the ready regardless of their knowledge that they'd do very little against the empire, as America continues to walk towards the largest tent, from which a bunch of nations rush out, armed and ready to fight. They all look at America in surprise and confusion, wondering how he managed to find his way here, and why he wasn't trying to kill anyone.

Finally, the leader of the rebels steps forward, making everyone else step back but stay on guard as he walks forward to meet America, his eyes ablaze with fury and determination.

"Well, well, well, _Amérique_. This is quite the surprise. Have you finally come to surrender to us?" From his position at the head of the rebels, France smirks at the nation, completely confident and determined, but all of that fades into confusion and shock as America drops to his hands and knees at his feet.

"Yes. I give up. I surrender. I can't... I can't do this anymore. Not without..." America doesn't realize that he's started crying again until a small, broken sob escapes him. "...He's gone. There's no point in me having power anymore, there's no point in me being in control anymore, there's no point in me _living_ anymore."

France stares at America in shock, letting this information process—he knows he should be rejoicing over America finally surrendering, but his mind is stuck on the reason _why_ he's surrendering. "...Gone...? As in...dead? For good? _Angleterre_ is..._mon petit lapin_ is..." France feels the tears streaming down his cheeks, but ignores them in favor of the pure rage welling up in his chest. "_Bâtard_... _Monstre_! _Tu l'as tué, tu vachement l'as tué_!" He starts furiously lashing out at America in a blind rage, completely forgetting about any weapons he has as he punches and kicks at America, who merely sits there and takes the hits without even flinching, continuing to silently cry. "_Je vais te tuer, salaud, démon_!"

France grabs America's hair and roughly pulls America's head up, only to… stop. All of his anger drains out of him in less than a second. "_Oh, Mon Dieu... Vous êtes retourné... Alfred, tu as retourné...__._" He stares into America's blue eyes—_so blue, finally, after all this time_—clouded with tears, his heart beginning to break even further at the look in those eyes: It wasn't the look of an empire, no, not at all. It was the look of a child—a scared, lost child looking for a friendly face amongst a sea of cold, cruel, unfamiliar ones; like a child waking up from a horrible nightmare, trying to separate dream from reality. Except, there was no "dream" here. Only harsh reality.

France feels himself fall to his knees, unable to support his weight anymore without his anger to drive him, and he's just barely able to wave a hand behind him to halt the other nations as well as the guards before pulling America into a hug.

"...You don't deserve kindness, not after all that you've done..."

"I know." America's voice is hoarse, forcing himself to speak around the lump in his throat. He clings desperately to France before beginning to sob his heart out.

France quietly speaks, holding America against his chest. "...You're finally back... After all this time, you're finally back... But at what cost?" France looks upward in despair, tears streaming down his cheeks as he runs his fingers through America's hair, continuing to hold him close—he knows that America deserves no kindness, not after everything that he's done, but he can't help it... This isn't America the Empire anymore. It's just Alfred, the boy that he helped raise alongside England, the boy that a part of him still sees as a brother, or even as a son. It's this part of him that refuses to push America away.

_I hate this... I love much too much, I give my love much too readily, even to those who don't deserve it…but I suppose that's the curse of being the country of love..._

Finally, after a few minutes of silence, the only sound being that of America's heart-wrenching sobs, France quietly speaks up.

"Alfred F. Jones, Empire of the United States of America, do you surrender?"

"...Yes. I do. Do with me what you will...beat me, torture me, kill me...I deserve nothing less."

"You realize that even if we kill you, you will never see him again."

"...I do. I know that. And that's my true punishment, something far worse than anyone could ever do to my body. I'll atone for my actions by living alone and in despair for the rest of eternity, without him."

"...This would be what they call 'karma', America. You had it coming."

"Yes, I know..."

_He's right. I deserve this. If living for the rest of eternity without Arthur by my side will help me atone for all that I've done...then so be it._

Throughout the world, the people rejoiced, the cruel reign of the Empire of the United States of America finally being brought to an end, with the Empire of the Soviet Union quickly following. America was subjected to an eternity of imprisonment and solitary confinement, which he accepted without any struggle.

_Arthur, my love... Rest in peace. Perhaps I'll see you again someday, somewhere, some time, if I could be so lucky. And maybe, hopefully... Things will be different that time. We could be together, and happy. Like the "us" from that other world..._

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**A/N: **I will work on the next chapter as soon as I possibly can. Thank you for your patience. It isn't over yet!**  
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	13. England's Memories

**A/N: **Wow, this chapter was long overdue! I do apologize for the wait, but I had midterms to get through. I have finals coming up in a week, but after that I have the whole entire month of December off, so there is plenty of time for me to work on this during that time!

I'd like to thank **takanobaka** for reading through this for me. :'D Even if she is a bastard and I want to punch her all the time.

* * *

Alfred looks around as they arrive back in Arthur's basement where England had first used the spell, trying to get his bearings after returning from a world so cruel. He has an almost dead look in his eyes, tears still silently streaming down his cheeks. He only just barely hears Arthur's request to leave the basement, utterly surprised to hear Arthur's voice after what felt like ages of silence.

"...Yeah," he replies, drifting towards the stairs. He doesn't give any lasting glances to the basement, leaving it the way it is as he slowly reaches the first floor, adopting a careful canter to avoid jostling Arthur's wounds. The last thing Alfred wants to do is put him in any more pain than he is already in.

For the duration that he walks, he's silent, his mind repeating a single phrase on loop: _It's my fault he died. My fault. My fault. My fault…._

Eventually he reaches Arthur's bedroom without even realizing it, pushing the door open and moving over to the bed. Alfred takes note of how quiet Arthur has been all this time, seeing the blank look in Arthur's eyes when Alfred gently puts him down onto his bed. He feels as if his legs are about to give out beneath him, and he shakily sits down on the bed, his back to Arthur. His eyes come to rest on the collar and leash that he'd left thrown on the floor—the ones that England had been originally wearing—and he speaks quietly, feeling like he doesn't even deserve to look at Arthur after what happened.

"...I'm sorry..." A sob slips out as soon as he says this, his mind and body drawing out of their numb, shocked states. He begins to shake, his tears falling faster than before. "...This was all my fault. I...I hurt you. I killed him. It's all my fault..."

Arthur still can't feel anything at all. He's virtually numb. Alfred's crying leaves him unsure of how to properly respond.

"It's not your fault. Don't be sorry," he says hollowly, his voice so distant as he stares with glazed eyes at the ceiling. His wounds kill him, but he doesn't pay them any attention. He's trying to convince himself—did any of this actually happen? Did any of it, really?

"You didn't kill him. Not _you_. You were going to save him. But—"

"—No, that's not true! It was still _me_!"

At Alfred's outburst, Arthur turns, his eyes locking onto Alfred's shaking form. He wants to reach out his hand, to place it on Alfred's back to comfort him. To kiss him. To break down with him. To tell him that they'll get through it together. But he can't _feel_. There's something that won't let him. At first, he doesn't know what it is, but then he realizes—America's cold eyes as he shot the bullet, shot England, England's body lying on the ground, England _dying_.

He shudders, drawing the reason back into his mind. He has died today.

Alfred continues on, unaware of Arthur's gaze. "It was still someone with my body, with my voice, with my name, with my _everything_ that did this to you, that killed…" His sentence is cut off with another sob. "A-and it's not like I was any better, even if I didn't directly do anything. If I hadn't said such a horrible thing to you, this never would've happened! And I promised him... I _promised_ him I would protect him and I promised him that he would be safe—finally, after everything he's had to go through. And then I didn't save him. I didn't protect him. I just stood by and watched... I really am a monster. I'm no better than the me from that world..."

For each word Alfred speaks that berates himself, Arthur doesn't say a thing. He can't. His tongue feels like ash in his mouth, and he begins to question himself.

_Am I really who I think I am? Is this even the right world anymore? Am I dead?_

It's only when Arthur really can bring himself to locate the words drifting around in his head that he is able to vocalize a response, cutting in before Alfred can say anything else.

"...You're nothing like him, Alfred," he says softly. "Nothing you could have done would have changed any of this."

Alfred feels utterly sick and disgusted with himself, his hands clenched into fists as he stares at the ground and cries, refusing to even look at Arthur. He stands up shakily, tears pooling at his neck. "I'm... I'm going to go use your shower for a bit. I need to get out of these clothes..."

Arthur watches his back as he moves farther and farther away, a panic rising in his chest. He nearly does it—he nearly calls out for him. But Arthur sighs and turns his head away. If he didn't feel so numb, he would probably sob or curl up and sleep for days. Yet all he does is avert his gaze back up at the ceiling, trying to figure out where things went so wrong.

First, Alfred heads for one of the bedrooms along the long hallway, letting himself into the guest room that he usually stays in whenever he goes to visit Arthur. He rummages through the closet for an outfit crammed in one of the drawers, grateful that he "forgets" some clothes in Arthur's house from time to time.

The last thing that he wants right now is to stay in _America's_ clothes for another minute.

He takes the bundle of clothing and finds his way to the guest bathroom, stripping down and throwing the clothes he's wearing to the floor. As he steps into the shower, he makes a mental note to burn the clothing later, if it would only eliminate some of the traces of what he and Arthur had just endured.

It takes him some vigorous washing to rinse the blood off of his skin, and Alfred does not even wince as he rubs over all the various wounds from his fight with his other self. Even once he's free of any blood, he merely stands in the shower, letting the water mix with his tears. He leans his back against the cold shower wall and sobs. He's not even sure how long he spends there, just standing and crying as the hot water pounds down on him, scalding, burning away at his skin.

_I deserve it. I deserve to be in pain, this is all my fault. One Arthur is dead, and the other probably hates me now._

Once the hot water begins to come out of the faucet cold, he turns the handle to cease the flow of water entirely. Alfred steps out, still feeling miserable, though his tears have already dried up. He takes a towel and slowly starts drying himself off, unable to bring himself to move quickly—he would normally be worried about leaving Arthur alone for this long because he wouldn't want Arthur to get scared or worried, but he figures that Arthur is probably more comfortable now that Alfred isn't anywhere near him. He doesn't even bother trying to rush, still feeling too depressed.

Alfred slowly pulls his change of clothes on, a small sense of relief washing over him as he feels a bit more like himself again. He picks up the bloodstained clothes from their crumpled heap on the floor, walking out of the bathroom and down the hall. He doesn't stop into the room where Arthur is most likely still resting on the bed, wanting to give him as much space as he possibly can.

Instead, he drifts down the carpeted stairway to Arthur's living room, grateful that Arthur has a fireplace in his house. Without a care in the world, he throws the clothes into the fireplace and works at starting a fire, having to find a box of matches somewhere around the house. When he strikes a flame to the firewood, he steps back, watching with a dull, faraway look as the clothes slowly catch fire and turn to ash. Once the last bit of fabric has been reduced to dust, he sits down on the couch, staring at his lap.

_Arthur... He'd probably feel more comfortable if I left, wouldn't he? He wouldn't have to put up with being around the person that killed him—or his alternate self, whatever._

He rests his head in his hands, wanting to go upstairs and check on Arthur, at the very least out of love and concern for his well-being. Yet what keeps him from doing so is the gnawing fear that Arthur wants nothing to do with him.

The fire hisses and as the last embers die, Alfred sighing along with them.

Noises from downstairs draw Arthur out of his dazed state. He isn't sure quite how long has passed since Alfred had left the room. All he knows is that the hollowness to his gaze is starting to fade, and he can feel a burning sensation in his limbs.

He _wants_ Alfred back. He so desperately needs a semblance of touch and kindness because, as it is, he's starting to feel as if he's lying in the otherworld England's bed, waiting to be beaten once more. He's scared. Terrified. Horrified of wondering how they're going to get past this—_if_ they're going to get past this. Will Alfred ever be able to love him again after this? Will he be afraid to? How would all of this—these memories, wounds and scars—go away?

He sits up as much as his body will allow him to, and although there is stabbing pain emitting from his ribs, he doesn't care. Not now. Pain is one of the last things on his mind.

He manages to put one foot down on the ground, leaving his leg with his shattered kneecap on the bed as he attempts to stand to his full height. His hands are starting to heal slightly, due to his finally being back in a world where he's a nation once more. He can feel the bones of his fingers shifting to fuse together, and he shakily grabs for something to keep him upright. The idea of grasping the comforter for balance doesn't work as well as he'd hoped, and he falls to the ground along with the thick blanket in a heap. The only way he can avoid further damage to his bones is by breaking his fall with his knee. He wants to scream his lungs out, burying his face into the blanket on the floor as he releases a muffled cry of anguish. The pain captures his voice, launching him into a series of tremors.

Knowing he has to keep moving, he ignores the sensation of the bones in his ribs starting to reform. Instead, he attempts to crawl across the floor to the doorway. The action of doing so is sickening—jarring, even. He drags himself with white knuckles, drawing blood from his lip as his teeth stab viciously past his skin. It seems like he's been locked in this struggle for far longer than he has before he reaches the door and scrapes at it with his nails, throwing it open to crawl towards the stairs. It takes him all he has not to scream, shuddering heavy, shallow breaths.

Arthur rearranges his position so he can sit on the stairs, weighing his options in his hands. He could attempt to walk down the stairs only using one foot, but that seemed far too dangerous. The only other option is to slowly slide down the stairs step by step. He moves, using his hands to lift his body up and bring it to the next step below, cringing in pain when his knee has to move to a degree to help this action. He repeats this, barely uttering a noise but a few harsh breaths, before he has come to the final steps, forcing himself to reach the landing.

Biting his lip, he tries to stand up with the aid of the railing beside him. He collapses near immediately, shaking from the effort of forcing his kneecap to support his weight. Figuring he has no other choice, he crawls once more, gritting his teeth with renewed determination.

_I have to find him..._ He smells wisps of smoke, the lingering scent of a fire burning his senses as he crawls towards his living room. _That's where he is. Just a little farther..._

He drags himself into the boundaries of the carpeted room, nearing Alfred's form on the large, plush couch. Once he has made it, Arthur instantly reaches for Alfred, hands grasping the fabric of his trousers. He pulls himself up, throwing his arms around Alfred's waist from his position on the ground. Arthur rests his head on Alfred's leg, burying his face to hide his expression that is slowly starting to crack.

Just that action alone is what does it.

Arthur isn't quite certain how it starts—one shuddered gasp, or maybe an long exhale of a choked breath leaving his throat—but suddenly everything comes undone. His whole body shakes as he sobs, his small frame taking the full force of his crying. "I love you. I love you. I love you so much. Please don't leave me alone. Please don't go, Alfred," he cries, clutching him tightly. "I don't want you to go."

Alfred is startled out of his glassy-eyed state as he feels arms weakly encircling his waist and a head resting on his leg. He slowly begins to realize that the fabric is beginning to get wet, sending him into a state of shock for a second. Part of him believes that his mind is hallucinating—because Arthur couldn't be down here when he's upstairs—but he hears Arthur's words, feels Arthur's tears and his sobs and his shaking, and he realizes it.

_He... He doesn't want me to leave. He still loves me, after everything that happened... _

Alfred moves slightly and gently picks Arthur up by his underarms, much like how one would pick up a child, before setting Arthur down gently on his lap. He pulls Arthur's body close against his chest, noting the way Arthur immediately reaches out to cling to his shirt. Arthur wraps his arms around Alfred's neck, sobbing into his chest. He presses himself closer to Alfred at the moment that his sobs grow more drawn out—more painful.

Alfred's fingers are suddenly under Arthur's chin, tilting his face upward. Before Arthur can question him, Alfred captures Arthur's lips in a gentle kiss. Arthur relaxes a little, his cries dying down to an extent. Even more relaxing is the action of Alfred's hands moving to Arthur's head, his fingers strumming through Arthur's hair. His free hand takes one of Arthur's own hands in his own, his arm still wrapped around Arthur to hold him close. Arthur hiccups at the soft touches, his sobs dying down to nothing more than mere sniffling. His eyes drift shyly up to Alfred's taking in his overwhelmingly kind expression. It is an expression of love, and love alone. Seeing his look, Alfred pulls away slightly to speak, his eyes filled with adoring affection.

"I love you too, Arthur, and I'm not going to leave you." He kisses Arthur again, enjoying the way Arthur's frame loses its tension. "I'll be by your side for the rest of eternity." Another kiss. "I'll always love you. _Always_. No matter what." Another. "I'll never let anyone hurt you ever again." And another. "I'll protect you. You're safe now. You're safe with me." He continues alternating between speaking and kissing Arthur, continuing to hold Arthur close to him as he runs his fingers through Arthur's hair with one hand and entwines his fingers with Arthur's with his other hand.

Alfred's words alone make Arthur's tears start up again, yet the kisses silence his sobs. When Alfred stops speaking and paying attention to him in the form of kisses, Arthur realizes that he needs more. He grabs Alfred's shirt in a clenched fist, using this to pull himself towards Alfred in order to press his lips to his. He closes his eyes, the last few tears he has slipping down his cheeks.

_...I don't ever want to lose you._

The move on Arthur's part to suddenly kiss Alfred slightly surprises him, but he quickly recovers and kisses back, pulling Arthur closer to him as he deepens the kiss. He tries his best to be as careful and gentle as he possibly can. Alfred is, above all else, honestly afraid of himself, realizing just how small and fragile Arthur is compared to him and his superhuman strength—_especially_ now—and the last thing that he wants is to hurt Arthur, accidentally or not.

Once the two part for air, Alfred moves one of his hands to gently wipe away the tears on Arthur's face. Arthur hugs him tightly in the reprieve of the kiss, allowing Alfred to wipe away his tears with a few sniffles on his part. With a fond smile, Alfred kisses Arthur again, relieved to see that Arthur seems to finally be calming down. Alfred maneuvers the two of them so he can move his arms to gingerly pick Arthur up, standing up and cradling Arthur to his chest. Arthur presses in closer to Alfred's chest, keeping a fist clamped around Alfred's shirt for support, Alfred beginning to travel through his home.

"Let's go back upstairs and get some sleep." He leans down and gently kisses Arthur once more when they reach the stairway, a small grin on his face, as he is both thrilled and relieved that Arthur still loves him and still wants him after everything that's happened.

"Yes, I think that would be the best thing. Hopefully I'll wake up healed, if only slightly." Arthur smiles in return, clinging tightly to Alfred as they move up the stairs, approaching his room. Arthur sighs, nuzzling into Alfred's neck, not wanting the other man to see the light blush that was spreading from his neck up to his cheeks. "I love you."

Alfred's smile widens as he feels Arthur nuzzle into his neck and hears the three words that Alfred knows were difficult for him to profess. He kisses the top of Arthur's head in return.

"I love you too," he says softly, entering the bedroom and crossing the floor to gently place Arthur down on the bed. He takes note of the state Arthur's in, dried blood clinging to his clothes and slightly leaking through some of his bandages. "Do you want me to get you something to change into? And maybe I should try and change those bandages for you too…"

As if he had nearly forgotten where they just came from, Arthur follows Alfred's gaze down to examine his clothes with a frown. "I hadn't even realized," he replies with a sigh. "If you are able, I think it would be ideal if I changed clothes and bandaging. I want these to heal properly." He's tired, his eyes fluttering closed as he rubs at them, all that crying making them slightly puffy and irritated. "I just would like to sleep soon."

Alfred bends over slightly to give Arthur a quick kiss on the lips, straightening up to his full height when he has finished. "Alright. I'll go and get the bandages and stuff first, and then I'll help you get out of your clothes and into something a bit more comfortable." He kisses Arthur again before heading towards the door. "I'll be right back."

Arthur doesn't wish for Alfred to go—not at all—but he knows it's the only way that he can receive proper care. Nodding, he relishes the aftermath of the kiss, watching Alfred wander away.

While Arthur lies back and closes his eyes, Alfred makes his way to the bathroom. Once inside the bathroom, he looks around for a bit before finally managing to find everything he'd need to clean and re-bandage all of Arthur's injuries. With a quickened step, he brings everything back with him to Arthur's room. He puts the supplies down on the small nightstand by Arthur's bed, turning around to see Arthur has fallen into a light slumber. Leaning over towards Arthur and giving him another quick kiss seems to do the trick, Arthur's eyes groggily moving to rest on his frame.

"Alright, do you think you can sit up?" Alfred says in a hushed tone, trying to relax the man before him that had gone through unspeakable tortures without rest.

"Nn… Yes," Arthur mumbles, shifting. "I think so." The kiss still lingers on his skin and he attempts to sit up, tiredly pitching forward a little into Alfred's arms. His body is beyond exhausted, and after tasting a small dose of sleep, it craves more.

His expression full of sympathy, Alfred wraps his arms around Arthur's waist with a careful touch. "I'll try and do this as fast as possible, okay? I know you're tired, but I don't want any of these wounds to get infected, and I hardly got the chance to even check any of the wounds under your clothes."

Arthur nods lazily in response, listening to Aflred speak, the sound of his gentle voice lulling him. Alfred gingerly moves Arthur up into a sitting position, extremely grateful for his physical strength as it allows him to pretty much do all the work for Arthur. He easily holds Arthur upright with one hand, starting to take Arthur's clothes off with his other hand. He has Arthur lift his arms so he can get the shirt off, Arthur groaning in response at the pain it causes. Alfred figures that he can lie Arthur back down in a moment to allow him a small break, setting Arthur's shirt aside. Yet once he finally gets the shirt off and takes a look at Arthur's bare chest, he's only just barely able to continue holding Arthur up.

Carved into the skin of Arthur's chest in violent red, jagged lettering that frays his flesh is a claim: _Property of the Empire of America_.

A nauseous feeling spirals in his chest as he stares at the words carved into Arthur's chest in shock, not even realizing that tears have started streaming down his face. "...Oh, God," he breathes, honestly unsure of how to properly react to seeing something like that—he knows that it will never properly heal now since it's carved too deeply into Arthur's body to fully fade. He knows that he promised to move as quickly as possible so Arthur can go to sleep, but he's completely frozen in shock, unable to do anything more than just stare at the words carved into Arthur's chest.

Arthur gives Alfred a moment after he has stopped moving, too tired to ask what's the matter. He believes Alfred is probably looking at his bruised ribs and the cuts on his body. Whining in a tired irritation after Alfred has been still for quite some time, Arthur speaks without bothering to open his eyes. "Alfred. What is it?"

Alfred is snapped out of his shocked state by Arthur's voice. He's unable to respond, instead pulling Arthur into a hug and sobbing out apologies. _My name. I did this. Even if I'm not an "Empire", there's still "Property of" and "America" carved into Arthur's chest..._

At the tight embrace, Arthur frowns in concern, waking up to the best of his ability. "A-Alfred? Alfred, what's wrong?" He tries to listen to what Alfred is saying, only catching "I'm sorry" among his sobs. Arthur pulls back, looking up at him with a searching gaze. "Wh-what? What on earth do you have to be sorry for, Alfred? You've done nothing wrong!"

At the thought that there may be a chance that Arthur is unaware of what is carved into his chest, Alfred's sobs die down. "Arthur," he whispers hoarsely. "You didn't see it, did you? What's on your chest…"

Arthur pales. "My...? What...?" He looks down, instantly going numb. Abruptly, he leans over Alfred's side, finding the tiny wastebasket near his nightstand. He reaches for its edges, dry heaving into it as he recalls the smell of his flesh burning, the pain as the nail was dragged across his skin, tearing at it, ripping it apart. Arthur coughs, pain drawing tears to his eyes as Alfred hastily moves to support Arthur, gently, shakily rubbing circles on Arthur's back.

_That's what he used the nail for._ Arthur shakily drops the wastebasket, having nothing to force out of his stomach, as he hasn't eaten or drunk anything in days. He is aware of Alfred moving the wastebasket aside, reaching to pull Arthur in close. Grateful, Arthur leans back against Alfred's warm chest, trembling. "H-He... He drew it on... Into my skin with a hot nail."

Alfred tries to repress his own urge to grab the wastebasket and start heaving, feeling sick to his stomach not only from the words on Arthur's chest, but from how Arthur describes those words getting there. He shushes Arthur with a hand caressing his cheek. "Don't think about it right now. It's… It's going to be okay. I can fix this for you. Even if it won't heal on its own, I can get rid of it for you, don't worry. I just..." He's unable to hold back his tears any longer, letting out another small sob. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, this was all my fault..."

In the time it takes Alfred to quiet him, Arthur has already clenched his eyes shut, terrified as he finds himself lingering back to that moment—his hands encased in chains, screaming for America to _just stop_. He jumps, whimpering and wrapping his arms around Alfred's waist, shaking. He struggles to speak, voice shaking as he says, "Not your fault."

The American's heart breaks as Arthur's form trembles against him, more so at the sound of his small whimper. Biting his lip, he shifts ever so slightly so he can tilt Arthur's head up and kiss him, wanting nothing more than for Arthur to calm down and feel safe. He watches as Arthur moves with him, his blues landing on greens brimming with tears, just like his own. Arthur kisses back, his shaking easing down to a small tremor, much to Alfred's relief. Alfred drags his fingers through Arthur's hair, figuring that this action seemed to calm both of them. He still blames himself—there will always be a part of him that blames himself—but he pushes those thoughts to the side for now. He needs to focus on making sure that Arthur is okay.

Seeking more comfort, Arthur presses his face to Alfred's chest, his eyes fluttering closed as he grows limp in Alfred's arms. Alfred silently continues to hold Arthur against his chest and run his fingers through Arthur's hair for a few minutes with his mind hopelessly lost in thought. When Arthur has sufficiently relaxed, Alfred plants a kiss on the top of Arthur's head and repositions Arthur so that he's lying back down. He scowls at all the damage on Arthur's body, trying to spot which of Arthur's wounds are in the worst shape in order to start with those. He tries his best to peel the bandages away as painlessly as possible so as not to disturb Arthur's sleep.

Arthur slowly drifts in and out of sleep, aware that Alfred has moved him. He fades back into a dreamless state, the lack of pain alluring. As Arthur rests, Alfred continues to work as swiftly as he can manage, starting to clean and re-bandage Arthur's injuries. His eyes constantly flicker up to Arthur's face to make sure he isn't in too much pain. Each time his eyes catch sight of the words on Arthur's chest, he vows that, once Arthur is rested enough, he will get rid of those scars, already running through several methods in his head. It makes him nauseous to even have to devise a way to remove such an atrocious marking, but nevertheless, he falls deep into thought.

Yet the Englishman lying before Alfred is slowly beginning to dream. And the memories that flood his mind… _they aren't his_. He's frozen in shock as he sees some of the brutal things occurring… Sees himself thrown out in the cold snow, chained up to a post like an animal in only a light uniform. But he knows it isn't _him_. It's _England_, _that_ world's England.

It's a fairly simple concept, but it's utterly horrifying. Arthur has retained England's memories. Completely paralyzed, Arthur can feel the lingering touches from Alfred on his skin outside this dream—or rather, this nightmare.

_The scene warps before him, his body—England's body—lying strapped down on a wooden board. Arthur tries to look away, but there's a peculiar sensation of something snaking around his limbs, and a terror in his chest. He blinks and suddenly he's in place of England, writhing against the restraints around his limbs. America grins down at him, jamming a rag into his mouth, letting it cover his nose partially so Arthur can barely breathe. Arthur chokes out, struggling and pleading, horrified that he isn't even safe back in his own world. _

_Not even in his own mind. _

_He screams out for Alfred to help him, thrashing upward right as America tips a jug of water over his face, spilling its icy contents over the rag carefully. Arthur gasps, sputtering as the sensation that he's drowning takes over his every thought, his every feeling. He jerks against the restraints, sobbing and choking and screaming… Anything to not have to suffer through another week of this torture. _

_America lets up for a moment, pulling the rag out of Arthur's mouth. "Had enough yet?" _

"_L-Let me… Let me go, you fucking bastard—!" _

_America places the rag back in Arthur's mouth, following up by tilting the jug over Arthur's face once more. He pours the water again... And again... And again..._

Alfred is fairly startled as Arthur starts to shake, his eyes squeezing shut. At first Alfred chalks it up to pain from him re-bandaging Arthur's injuries, but upon closer inspection, he can see it isn't so.

_No, there's something wrong. He looks like… Like he's struggling for breath?_

Nervous, Alfred checks Arthur's ribs, worried that one might have punctured Arthur's lungs somehow without him realizing it. However, as far as he can tell, there is no damage that could be causing this kind of reaction on Arthur's end. He begins to grow more worried the more Arthur shakes.

"Arthur. Artie, wake up. Artie, tell me what's wrong, please!" He gently lifts Arthur into a semi-sitting position, keeping an arm behind Arthur in order to keep him sitting upright while running his free hand through Arthur's hair shakily in hopes to wake him from whatever he is going through.

_America finally stops, tossing the jug away without care. He kneels over Arthur and flicks out his switchblade and, without a second to spare, digs it into Arthur's shoulder. Arthur screams against the rag in his mouth as America moves the blade under his skin, brushing against muscle and bone. He drills it in, twisting and pressing down hard with the knife, cutting back and forth. _

_Arthur nearly passes out just as America decides to give up, pulling the rag out of Arthur's mouth. He replaces the rag with the knife, slipping it into Arthur's mouth, resting the tip of the blade on his tongue. America attempts to shush him as he tries to curse around it. Defiantly, Arthur moves his tongue slightly, only to receive a nick from the blade. _

_America smirks at Arthur's small whimper. "Go on. Lick the blade clean." _

_The victim tries to shake his head, but America brings the blade down against his tongue once more. "Lick the blade clean, or you lose your fucking tongue." _

_Arthur sobs, tears spilling down his cheeks as he tentatively flicks his tongue out, tasting iron. He wants to vomit. It makes him completely nauseated to taste his own blood in his mouth in such copious amounts. He laps up the last remaining drop of crimson against his will, shuddering as America pulls the knife out of his mouth. _

"_There's a good pet, cleaning up your own messes."_

Once Alfred sees that Arthur doesn't seem to be gasping for breath anymore, he is disturbed by the fact that now Arthur is shaking violently, nearly rattling the bedframe.

_Dreaming... He's dreaming. Probably about when he was with that bastard..._

Alfred sits down on the bed and gently lifts Arthur onto his lap, hugging him close as gently as he can and softly kissing his lips. He speaks just to let Arthur hear his voice, repeating small phrases over and over. "Artie, wake up. I'm here, you're with me and you're not with him. It's all in your head. None of it's real. Wake up. You're safe. I've got you. I'll protect you. I love you, just wake up, please."

_Arthur trembles as America moves the knife down to his throat, smiling. He flashes a satisfied expression at Arthur's undoing before him, leaning in near his ear. _

"_Do you give up yet? You're mine anyway. Your brothers? They gave you up."_

"_...Fuck you." _

_America eyes him for a moment before his lips curve into a cruel, toothless grin. "...Oh, my poor little pet. Why can't you ever do as you're told?" He reaches for two nails, undoing Arthur's restraints. "Well. You're going to be lying here for a while then." _

_America moves Arthur's hands so they rest on top of one another, holding the nail to the soft flesh of his palm, swinging around a hammer next to him as he whistles. Arthur jerks, trying to move as his leg restraints hold him in place, his mutilated shoulder burning in pain. _

"_N-No...!" _

"_I gave you your chance. This works best," America states. He pulls back the hammer, driving it home as the nail is buried into the tender flesh of Arthur's hand. _

Immediately, Arthur jerks, sitting up with widened irises as the torture room disappears. He finds himself encased in someone's arms instead of leather straps. Terrified much like a small animal would be of human touch, Arthur scoots away, backing up to the farthest corner of his bed. He holds himself tight to better deal with the horrible trembles that attack him in waves.

"P-Please. Alfred, please. I need you... He's going to hurt me, Alfred. He's going to break me." He covers his ears, clenching his teeth. "I can't wake up. I can't."

The thought crosses Arthur's mind that the only dreaming he is doing is of Alfred's kindness and presence. Had he ever even gotten out of that world? Is he lying there, pinned to the floor, dreaming of a hope that would never come to be?

Alfred—still blinking in shock at Arthur's sudden and panicked movement away from him—can clearly feel his heart breaking as he sees Arthur curl into himself, begging him for help. He quickly moves over to Arthur, resting on his knees on the bed in front of the other man. He slowly, but surely, wraps his arms around Arthur, kissing the top of Arthur's head.

"It's okay Arthur, it's alright. I'm here. I'm right here. I've got you, and he's not going to hurt you. No one's going to hurt you. You're safe. You're safe…"

Arthur swears that Alfred's gentle voice, his arms around him and the kisses on the top of his head all feel so _real_. Why has he experienced what he just has if he is here with Alfred? Arthur is utterly confused, frustrated, tired and suffering. He knows he has to sleep, but if those are the kinds of nightmares he will go back to, he doesn't want to.

At least when Arthur doesn't pull away from him, Alfred gains minimal relief that he hadn't reacted as horribly as England had. He pulls Arthur back towards him with a careful grip to rest against his chest, kissing the top of his head for what seems like the record of all affection he had ever given to anyone.

"You're safe, Arthur. I'll protect you no matter what, so you don't have to be scared, and you don't have to be upset. Anything that isn't me holding you and loving you and protecting you isn't real, okay? Whatever scared you was just a dream, or a memory. It was something that wasn't real, and something that can't hurt you." He moves one of his hands up to Arthur's head to run his fingers through Arthur's hair, this action working the fastest to calm Arthur down a degree. "I love you, Arthur, and I'm going to protect you, even if it's from the memories in your head. As long as you're with me, and as long as you're in my arms, you're safe, okay? You can relax. You can sleep and I'll still be here protecting you when you wake up."

Arthur nods, resting his head on Alfred's shoulder. He closes his eyes, tears slipping down his cheeks. He manages to relax into the touch, slowly settling down from the trauma of the unwanted memories permeating his dreams. The chill finally gets to him when he has stopped shaking, Arthur uncomfortable at the lack of a shirt. With Alfred's support, Arthur reaches for Alfred's jacket at the foot of the bed to wrap himself in before he stops, all the blood draining from his face in a single second.

There, at the window, stands America, a finger to his lips.

"Now," he says, eyes glinting. "Where were we?"

* * *

**A/N:** I hate to leave it here but I have to~ Expect a new chapter in December or the end of November! Thank you very much for sticking with my RP partner and I this far.

In the meantime, I am planning on finishing an AU to this story that is a one-shot, and I am planning a Cardverse fic from a plot that spawned from this image I had in my head one day. I hope to get that started up as well.

Most of my fics that I do not post here can all be found in my LiveJournal, which is linked on my profile, if you are looking for my other stories.

Happy November! :)


	14. Removing the Traces

**A/N:** Sorry for taking so long to update! This will be the second to last chapter for this fic.

* * *

Arthur drops Alfred's jacket abruptly in order to recoil back into Alfred's arms, burying his face in his chest. He doesn't dare look back at America, hearing the other laugh airily in response.

_He can't be here. He can't. It's impossible! …Right?_

Alfred can only frown as he notes Arthur's reaction to _something_—Alfred can only guess that it has something to do with America—before reaching out and taking his jacket from where Arthur dropped it and wrapping it around Arthur. He moves a bit so that he's sitting cross-legged on the bed, lifting Arthur a bit and pulling him to sit on Alfred's legs in order to attempt to bring Arthur as close against himself as he physically can without hurting him. He holds Arthur against his chest, gently rubbing circles on his back, alternating between murmuring quiet reassurances to Arthur and kissing the top of his head.

Drawing the jacket around him, Arthur nervously glances back to the window while he clings to Alfred. America chooses that moment to walk towards him, sitting on the bed with a malicious expression.

"We weren't finished yet, pet."

Arthur shudders, closing his eyes while he repeats a mantra in his head. _Not real, not real, not real…._ An icy hand grips onto his shoulder and he jerks, shivering from what must have seemed like the cold to Alfred. America has pulled himself closer to Arthur, smiling as he rests his chin on Arthur's shoulder.

"We have so many games we haven't played yet."

Unable to determine what is bothering Arthur, Alfred takes Arthur's shiver as a point of concern. "Right, I should probably go and get you something to wear. My jacket's warm, but I guess it's not enough." He's still reluctant to move away from Arthur in his state, but he figures that a few seconds won't hurt. Gently, he lifts Arthur off of his lap and rests him back onto the surface of the bed so he can stand up.

Arthur moves his eyes up to Alfred's, his greens widening as Alfred sets him down. Alfred notices this, offering Arthur a soft smile to try and calm him down.

"Just give me a second and I'll find something for you to change into," he says soothingly. Alfred gives Arthur a quick peck on the lips, moving away from the bed and towards Arthur's dresser.

Just as Arthur opens his mouth to beg Alfred to come back, America slips his hand over his lips, pressing down to stifle his cries. The stronger man pulls him backwards while Arthur reaches his hand out, struggling for Alfred's attention. Tears fill up in his eyes when Alfred doesn't seem to notice him, simply rummaging around with his back turned to Arthur for something comfortable for him to wear.

America presses him back onto the bed, smirking. "If you tell him I'm here, do you know what will happen?"

Arthur shakes his head, trembling as all the previous tortures of the week flood his brain. _If I can feel this all, and if this is real, then why can't Alfred see him? Why can't he hear him?_

Continuing, America offers an icy look that makes Arthur unable to tear his eyes away. "I will rip him to shreds, limb by limb, but not before I cut out his tongue and sew your lips shut so the two of you can never speak to one another ever again. Do you understand?"

The Englishman nods feverishly, America reaching down to place a hand on his kneecap. "Now, don't you scream, okay?"

In pure terror, Arthur gives a muffled protest right before America forces his hand downward onto his injured knee. Arthur jerks in an immediate response to the pain, biting down as hard as he can on his lip so only a tiny whimper escapes his throat. He shudders until America sees fit to let go, the empire smiling throughout the whole thing.

Suddenly, America glances back at Alfred, eyes assessing him. "Or maybe," he begins, smirking. "Maybe I should just kill him right now and be done with it."

Arthur furiously shakes his head, America ignoring in him favor standing to his full height.

"No!" Arthur calls out, quickly closing his mouth as America turns to look at him in disdain.

"Disobedient still, I see."

Arthur recoils, not saying anything more, terrified to keep speaking. Alfred had already turned around by now, an outfit in his arms and a concerned expression on his face at Arthur's quiet cry. He immediately rushes back over to the bed with warmer clothes in his hands.

"Arthur, what's wrong? Are you alright?"

Alfred sees Arthur staring in terror at a spot on the bed, but Alfred couldn't see anything there for the life of him. _He's seeing something…_ _but what?_ Regardless of what Arthur may be seeing, Alfred knows that he needs to do _something_, so he reaches over and lifts Arthur off of the bed. He sits down on the bed's edge with his back to the area that Arthur has been staring at.

With a horrified gaze, Arthur watches Alfred move, shuddering at the idea of Alfred resting so close to America. "No, Alfred… Alfred, don't!"

Placing Arthur down on his lap to face him, Alfred realizes that he has to get through to Arthur now or things would only escalate. Gently, Alfred grasps Arthur's chin and tilts his head up so that the two of them are staring eye-to-eye.

Arthur vigorously shakes his head, tears spilling down his cheeks. "No, please. Please. Please, you have to go! You have to run!"

"Arthur," Alfred says sternly, albeit sympathetically. "I want you to listen to me, and I want you to listen carefully: Whatever you're seeing _isn't_ _real_. It's a result of the trauma on your mind combined with the lasting effects of sleep-paralysis—it's a fear-induced hallucination, and nothing more." Alfred smiles slightly. "Trust me, I know plenty about this stuff. Science is my specialty. I can give you a completely logical explanation for everything that you're seeing and feeling that isn't reality until you believe me that it isn't real."

Closing his eyes, Arthur refuses to look at Alfred while he speaks, afraid of what he'll see. He wants to scream, most likely appearing as if he's about to faint, as it prompts Alfred to gently kiss Arthur's lips.

"You know I wouldn't let anything happen to you," Alfred whispers. "I love you too much to sit by and let anything hurt you. Trust me—I'm real, and whatever else you're seeing isn't."

"Alfred… he's…." Arthur opens an iris and sees America right off the bat in front of him, the malicious empire moving to slip a knife to Alfred's throat with a finger to his lips. Arthur goes completely silent, eyes opening wide in terror. Alfred kisses him once more and it breaks the spell, Arthur looking up to him while America relaxes back, smirking.

"Remember," America says from behind Alfred. "Our little secret."

Arthur shakily nods while he trembles, clinging to Alfred like a small child would to their mother before burying his face in his shirt. "Alfred, can... can we please just…."

He trails off as he peers up, seeing America near Alfred, knife at his back. Arthur pulls Alfred away, wrapping his arms around his waist. _Not real. You're not real. Damn it, just leave me the hell alone._ He takes a shaky breath, closing his eyes as everything is just becoming far too much.

"Stop." It comes out as a soft, pleading whisper, Arthur screwing his eyes shut tighter. "Just stop… all of it. Just make it stop."

Alfred frowns as he feels Arthur clinging to him desperately, apparently trying to hide from whatever hallucinations he's having, and he wordlessly lifts Arthur into his arms, cradling him close to his chest. "Arthur, maybe you'd feel a bit better if we got away from here…. Let's try going into the guest bedroom instead." He manages to bend over slightly and grab onto the clothes he'd taken out for Arthur—intending on getting him out of the clothes he's wearing and into something more warm and comfortable—and heads out of the bedroom and into the guest room. Alfred places Arthur down on the bed and stands right in front of him, bending over slightly so that they're face to face. "Artie, I'm going to help you get changed, and then we'll get some sleep, okay?"

His eyes still closed, Arthur offers nervous chatter, hoping America has not followed them. "He said…. He said that he…." He doesn't finish, mumbling in fear.

Seeing that Arthur is still scared, Alfred sighs before cupping Arthur's cheek in one hand, and running his fingers through Arthur's hair with the other. "Arthur, I know you're scared, but this stuff won't go away until you listen to me and _believe_ that it's not real. Look, when you were dreaming, you _knew_ that you were dreaming, right? Yet you couldn't move or do anything about it, right? That's called sleep paralysis—as scary as it may seem, it's a perfectly normal phenomenon. And now that you're awake, you're still seeing remnants of your dream—it's a less common phenomenon, but not unheard of. To put it simply, a victim of a sleep paralysis feels extreme fear when he discovers he cannot move his body although he has consciousness—you felt that, right? Well, basically when you're that badly frightened, the amygdala—a part of your brain—triggers the fight-or-flight response by stimulating the release of various substances, which constrict the smooth muscles around the blood vessels, causing the blood pressure to rise in the brain. Because of this, the membrane potential in the visual and auditory cortex changes, triggering the firing of the neurons and hallucinations to occur. See? Perfectly normal. It's just a hallucination because you got scared, that's all. Once you let yourself calm down and stop listening to whatever these hallucinations are saying and stop paying attention to what they're doing to try and scare you even more, then they'll go away and you can get some rest." He gives Arthur a quick kiss on the lips, praying that these hallucinations will fade soon.

Arthur presses himself closer to Alfred in response. He knows what has occurred, that he has synced up with the England of the other world without his consent in a very intimate way by being in proximity to him alone. "I _know_. I know it's not real. I just… I can't get him to stop appearing. I-I have the memories of that world's England…." He grits his teeth in frustration. "...I can't get them to go away. I never _asked_ for them….!"

"Memories….? You have his memories?" Alfred frowns, biting his lip in thought before speaking slowly. "…Do you want me to get rid of them? His memories, I mean." He glances away. "Tony's got a whole bunch of stuff on his ship. I'm positive I've seen a couple of things there that can wipe memories. I could do that, but there would be a chance that you'd forget _everything_ that happened since the World Meeting. Everything... including _us_. …But I'll leave it up to you. It's your choice."

Arthur looks up at him in shock. "...I don't... I don't want to forget you! I don't…."

_The scene flickers to the snow briefly, England lying on the ground as crimson laces through the pure white ground. America stands over him as the Soviet Union holds his pipe over England's head, giggling madly. America kicks England in the side and dumps water onto his body in the freezing cold, and…. _

Arthur has to clench his eyes shut… has to tell himself that none of it is real before he can open his eyes again, trembling. "I don't want to forget you, but I can't take this anymore. I can't."

Alfred smiles sadly and pulls Arthur into a kiss, trying his best to keep thinking optimistically and not let himself start crying as Arthur kisses him back with a trembling passion. "...Alright."

He gently takes his jacket off of Arthur and grabs the shirt he'd picked out for him, helping him slip into it. He hesitates only slightly before starting to help Arthur out of his pants and into clean ones, tossing the bloodstained pants to the floor. Once Arthur is in clean, warm clothes, Alfred puts his jacket back on Arthur, lifting him a bit so that he can sit on the bed with Arthur on his lap. Arthur adheres close to Alfred, placing his head against his heart.

_...I don't ever want to forget what this feels like,_ Arthur thinks, recalling Alfred's pained smile from before. It causes him to second-guess what he's doing, lifting his head as Alfred reaches into the pocket of the jacket to pull out his phone. He quickly drops his head once more, drained of all energy. _I hope I am doing the right thing._

Alfred flips his phone open and presses a number on speed dial, waiting a second or two before he hears the sound of the phone being picked up on the other end. "Yo, Tony, could you beam us up? Thanks!" He snaps the phone closed and suddenly a light envelops the two of them, Arthur panicking in his lap.

Screwing his eyes shut, Arthur recalls that the last time this happened… they were…. He clenches his fists. _No, not the other world… anything but that!_

Instead, when they disappear from Arthur's house, they reappear in Tony's space ship, about ten feet above the ship's floor.

"Dammit Tony!"

Alfred makes sure Arthur is secure in his arms as he drops to the floor before letting out a relieved sigh, turning to the alien figure at the control panel. "Dude, you've _seriously_ got to get that transmitter fixed."

"Yes, I know— …What is that fucking limey doing here?"

Arthur blinks at Alfred's "friend" lazing about, wanting to smack his head against a wall at the sight of him alone. "Oh, good _God_," he groans.

Alfred laughs airily. "Dude, I said I'd have someone with me."

"But you never fucking said it was the fucking limey."

"Aw, c'mon, this is serious—I need to just borrow some of your stuff, fix Artie up, and then we'll be out of your hair!"

"...Fine. What the fuck do you need?"

Alfred bites his lip. _He's got to get his memories erased, sure, but... there's something we've have take care of first, before that._ "We have to wipe his memory and reset it to the World Meeting last week. He's got someone else's memories in his head that aren't supposed to be there. But first... he's got scars on his chest that need to be removed. If we wipe his memory without removing them, then he's just going to see them and relapse, and that's _not_ going to end well…." He glances down at Arthur, still in his arms, with a worried and regretful look.

Arthur barely has the strength to glare at Tony, sighing. He's so very tired, and all he wants is sleep. He closes his eyes gently and leans against Alfred, listening to the hum of the ship in the background.

Tony glares disdainfully at Arthur one last time, but even _he_ can't bring himself to be fully annoyed after seeing Arthur's current state. "...Fuck. Fine. You know where to go. Just don't fucking touch anything you're not supposed to fucking touch."

"Thanks, Tony. I owe you one." Alfred smiles gratefully at Tony, though his eyes are still filled with reluctance and despair at the thought of what he's going to have to do to Arthur.

"...Go get everything fucking set up. I'll be there in a fucking minute."

"You're going to help?" Alfred is surprised—of course, Tony had helped him with experiments and the like on more than one occasion, so it's not really a matter of Tony helping _him_ that confuses him... it's the fact that Tony is actually willing to help _Arthur_ that intrigues him.

"Hmph. I don't give a fuck about that fucking limey, if that's what you're fucking implying. I just don't want you fucking up and hurting yourself or fucking up my equipment or anything like that."

Smiling coyly, Alfred laughs softly. "Why would I mess up? I'm the hero, I know what I'm doing."

Tony groans and brings a hand—was it a hand?—to slap over his forehead. "You make me even _more_ fucking worried when you say that. Just go the fuck inside already and go get everything fucking ready."

Alfred blinks, confused by Tony's statement. "Alright," he says, shrugging it off and turning around to head for the door. "Thanks again, dude!"

Arthur is still safely nestled in his arms against his chest, aware of Alfred walking once more, the feeling of them moving throughout the ship, the cool air brushing his skin. Alfred heads deeper into the spaceship, navigating the complex pathways with practiced ease before reaching his destination. Gently, he puts Arthur down so that he is standing on his own, needing at least one hand free in order to punch in the passcode for the door and press his hand against a scanner.

"Alfred, don't let me forget you," Arthur mumbles, shakily standing while Alfred works on opening the door.

The light around the scanner turns green, Alfred hushing Arthur with a kiss while he swings him back up into his arms. Arthur groans, tired and resistant to being moved, watching with exhausted eyes as the door automatically opens so that Alfred can walk inside.

The room is fairly large, lined with computers on two walls and surgical tools on the other two, the only free wall space being where the doorway is. There's an operating table right in the middle of the room, and Alfred moves and sets Arthur down on it. Arthur shivers when his back touches the metal of the operating table, the fabric of Alfred's shirt slipping through his hand at his movement away from Arthur and toward the computers.

"Don't let me forget," Arthur whispers, relaxing against the table. He directs his vision toward a bleary image of America that lingers in the shadows of the far wall, eyes gleaming at him. Arthur quickly shuts his own eyes, not wanting to see him any longer, desperately trying to keep the oncoming memories at bay as sleep beckons for him. He realizes that he can never fully be himself… not so long as this stands in his way. It pains him, and he holds back a cry, knowing that America had successfully taken something away from him after all—his love. America had lost his love, and now he'd taken it away from Arthur. He feels a tear fall out of his eye, slipping down his cheek and onto the metal table. _…Don't take my love away from me. Please just don't let me forget how much I love him…._

Alfred starts the computers up, typing rapidly as he begins to make the necessary preparations for the first part of what he would need to do to fix Arthur. That first step consisted of him knocking Arthur unconscious and running a few tests to make sure that he's _fully_ unconscious, as he's heard chilling cases of people being put to sleep with anesthesia, yet only their bodies fell asleep and their minds are still awake and fully able to feel pain as the doctors start on the operations, oblivious to the fact that they can feel every single cut.

He cuts his train of thought off and shudders, knowing that Arthur's been through enough pain as it is, and the last thing he would want would be to do something like that to him, unintentionally or not. Once he is sure that Arthur is fully unconscious, it makes him sick to think about it, but he is going to have to cut Arthur's chest, right across the words carved into it—if he were to merely patch up Arthur's chest as it is, he would have to do it letter by letter, and the slight skin discoloring and scarring would still make the words slightly visible. If he crosses everything out, then it will look like something clawed at Arthur's chest at the worst, which is certainly much better than having those words on Arthur's chest.

Walking around to the different computers, Alfred alternates between typing away on each of them as he mutters to himself almost entirely in medical and scientific jargon, going over the procedure in his head. Alien symbols that Alfred was proud to say he had taught himself how to read after many years of hard work flash across the screens in response to his typing.

Arthur lies still, listening to the whirring of all the computers, trying to calm his heartbeat and his breathing. He can't take the solitude anymore, calling out softly. "…Don't forget how much I love you, Alfred. Please, don't let me forget."

Alfred turns around as he hears Arthur speak, feeling his heart breaking. He walks back over to Arthur, gently wiping away the bit of water left on Arthur's cheek from his tear before kissing Arthur on the lips, his eyes filled with both grief and undying love and affection. "...I'll never forget, and I can only hope that you don't forget either."

The way Arthur had desperately kissed back causes Alfred to feel tears gathering in his eyes, and he desperately tries to push them back. Arthur places a hand on Alfred's cheek, the American forcing himself to speak around the lump in his throat while he smiles sadly at Arthur.

"I'll always love you, Arthur, even if you forget. Even if you end up never loving me again… even if there never ends up being an 'us' like there almost was now. I'll always love you, and I'll always protect you." He can feel that Tony is outside the door, most likely giving them a bit of privacy, and he reluctantly moves away from Arthur. "Sorry, Arthur. I'm going get started now. I'm going to fix up your chest first, so let's start with taking off my jacket and your shirt."

Alfred's sad expression pains Arthur so badly, what feels like a hand clenching at his heart as his eyes burn. He lets his eyelids close when Alfred moves away, taking in everything he is relaying to him silently. It's only when he hears Alfred's statement about leaving his chest bare that Arthur opens his eyes, sitting up slightly in order to help.

Alfred forces himself to calm down as he slips into a more professional state of mind. His expression is still affectionate, yet it is also serious and focused as he helps Arthur out of the jacket and shirt while speaking, explaining to him what's going to be done. "I'm going to have to give you some anesthesia to knock you out before I do anything else. You don't have to worry, though—the anesthesia that Tony's got here is much more advanced and effective than what we have. It'll knock you out within a few seconds tops, and you won't feel a thing! You'll probably just wake up a bit numb, and then your chest will be a bit sore once the numbness fades away, but that's really the extent of it."

Tony takes this moment to enter the room, wordlessly moving over to the computers as he resumes where Alfred left off in setting up the computers. Alfred throws a glance to him before continuing his explanation to Arthur.

"Once the anesthesia's in your system, I'll run a couple of tests to make sure you're really out—nothing painful, don't worry, just the computer reading your brainwaves and heart rate and other things like that—and then the procedure itself should take no more than two hours. I'll be sure to give you enough anesthesia so that you'll be out for three hours, though, just to be on the safe side. I'd rather have you sleeping a bit longer and not in pain than to have you start to wake up in the middle of the procedure." Alfred winces slightly at the thought before putting on a smile and kissing Arthur again, helping him lie down on the table and doing his best not to stare at the words carved into Arthur's chest. "We'll deal with your memories once this is taken care of. Let's just focus on one problem at a time."

Alfred's kiss provides ample comfort, and Arthur's heart swells with the realization that it may be the last kiss he'll receive in a long time. Arthur reviews all the information, nodding slowly. "A-all right. I trust you, Alfred. I trust you. I just don't want to feel like this anymore. The sooner I... _we_ can go back to normal, the better. We can leave all this behind and just…."

He finds it hard to finish, his mind wandering to the fact that there is that possibility that he won't wake up _normal_. That he'll wake up and he won't just forget England's memories, but that he will wake up and Arthur will think Alfred hates him. That he will never know they both love one another unconditionally. That it took him getting _tortured_ in another world for them to finally stop being so stubborn. Will Arthur ever get a chance to admit it again like this? Would he?

Feeling nauseated, Arthur relaxes back against the table as best as he can in his state. "...I-I'm ready. Ready as I'll ever be, I suppose." He reaches for Alfred's hand and offers a scared smile. "...I love you. Don't you forget that. No matter what it may seem, you know that I love you."

Alfred feels Arthur grab onto his hand and he smiles, taking Arthur's hand and bringing it up to his lips. He is mindful of the still-healing injuries on Arthur's badly damaged hand as he does so. "I love you, too, and I'll never forget." His smile is sad but determined. "As long as I know that you love me, I'll be fine. I'll do my best to win you over and convince you again that I love you, too, and I won't give up no matter how many days, or weeks, or months, or _years_ it may take. The only thing that held me back before was the fear that you didn't reciprocate my feelings, but now that I know…." He manages a quiet chuckle. "…Well, good luck getting me out of your life now, because I'm going to be with you forever, and I'm going to _love_ you forever, whether you like it or not."

Arthur smiles finally, breaking through his scared disposition. He feels tears sparkle in his eyes, yet he forces them to recede, wanting to appear confident in the face of a tragedy as horrid as forgetting their confessions to one another. "Yes. I don't ever want you to go, you git," he muses.

They reluctantly cut their hand holding short as Tony hands Alfred a cuff for Arthur's arm. "Here. The fucking sphygmomanometer is ready. Let's get this fucking over with."

Alfred nods and gently wraps the cuff around Arthur's arm, speaking as he does so in order to try and keep Arthur as informed as to what he's doing as possible to help him stay calm and not feel in the dark about what's being done to him. "Normally this'd be used to take blood pressure, but it also works to help make it a bit easier for me to see your veins." He lets Tony run the machine before moving over to the wall filled with surgical and medical tools, glancing them over as he looks for what he needs.

Arthur glances at Tony, offering a shaky smirk and a raise of his middle finger in a gesture he knows the alien is quite fond of. "I'm not going to thank you, or anything," he says, smirk wobbling as a smile peeks behind it. Tony returns the gesture and Arthur lets out a scoff, a laugh in its wake.

Across the room, Alfred takes a needle and cleans it carefully before filling the syringe with a bluish liquid from a bottle in a medical cabinet against the wall. He takes clean gauze along with the needle back over to Arthur, nodding to Tony to stop the machine, which he does. Alfred takes the cuff off of Arthur's arm and absentmindedly hands it over to Tony as his eyes search Arthur's arm, looking for the most prominent vein and smiling slightly when he finds it.

"Alright, you can close your eyes if you want," he says, holding up the needle for him to see. Arthur swallows hard, eyes assessing Alfred as he speaks. "This is basically a more advanced and effective version of the anesthesia that we have on Earth, and don't worry—Tony's already tested it on me and nothing bad happened, so it's perfectly safe. You're gonna feel really, _really_ tired, so just close your eyes and don't fight it, okay?" He leans over and kisses Arthur's forehead. "I'm going to be here with you the entire time, so you don't have to worry. And you don't have to worry about dreaming or memories or anything like that—this thing will knock you so far out that your mind won't even be able to enter REM sleep. You'll just have a nice, peaceful, dreamless—and memory-less—sleep, and when you wake up, the procedure will be over."

The needle scares Arthur—he won't lie. He isn't sure what's going to happen. So many things have been done to his body in the past couple days that he just wants it all to stop, and for him to be in control of himself once more. He sighs, wishing for better days, while Alfred speaks to him. "N-no memories?" he asks, a wave of relief crashing over him. "Thank _God_."

Alfred takes Arthur's arm and holds it steady with one hand, first putting the needle down on a tray and using the gauze to clean the area around the vein. He then picks the needle back up, nervously eying Arthur. He is nervous not because he doesn't know what he's doing, because he has more than enough MDs to consider himself able to perform this kind of procedure, but because he's worried about Arthur and Arthur's mental state. He doesn't want to scare him any further than he already is.

"Ready?"

Arthur closes his eyes while taking a rather large breath. His arm tingles in anticipation of the needle and he shivers, nodding. "I'm ready."

Alfred nods before injecting the anesthesia-like liquid into Arthur. There is a tiny sensation prickling into Arthur's skin when the needle slips past, the edge disappearing in the soft cushion of his flesh. He forces himself to look away. America had experimented on him with various poisons and illnesses in the week that he had been missing—was it only a week over there? It seemed longer.

He bites his lip as he pulls away, not wanting to hurt Alfred's feelings, as well as not wanting him to think he's relapsing after all of his efforts. America watches him from the doorway, his images slowly evaporating as a haze slides over Arthur's vision.

Alfred isn't too surprised when he sees Arthur reflexively fighting it, since Alfred knows that Arthur, despite his attempt at a brave front, is still scared.

He quickly puts the needle down once the liquid has been fully injected into Arthur, moving to run his fingers through Arthur's hair calmingly. He leans over and gently kisses Arthur on the lips, quietly murmuring to him. "Sleep, Artie. You're safe. Go to sleep."

A kiss lands gently against Arthur's lips, him parting his own in response. He breathes out gently while fingers swirl in between his locks. Arthur's eyes first glaze over before fluttering, Arthur taking a deep breath in time to his shoulders relaxing.

_So… tired…._ Arthur manages a last coherent thought before he closes his eyes.

Alfred's words and actions have exactly the effect that he hopes they will—Arthur's features quickly relax as he stops fighting and lets himself fall asleep. Once he sees that Arthur has fallen asleep, he turns to Tony.

"Run as many tests on him as you have to in order to make sure that his body and mind are _both_ asleep."

"Yeah, yeah." Tony grumbles about "fucking limeys" as he types away at the keyboards of the multiple computers, an array of different scanners running over Arthur's body and readings appearing on the computer screens.

Alfred, meanwhile, has moved to grab everything he'd need, pulling on surgical gloves and a doctor's coat that he'd left in Tony's ship from the different times he'd come here to perform various experiments. He picks up a scalpel and a more futuristic-looking device, one that looks almost like something between a screwdriver and a razor, only instead of blades, there are tiny needles, which, when the device is turned on, move in a manner similar to a sewing machine—the device's purpose is exactly what Alfred intends to use it for, that being to sew closed the cuts on Arthur's chest once he's made them. The thing that Alfred likes about this device is that, aside from the fact that it requires you to move very slowly and carefully when using it to be sure that no mistakes are made—since the stitching melts into the skin almost instantaneously—it's an extremely efficient tool, closing up wounds much more effectively than he'd ever be able to by hand or with any tools available to him on Earth.

He heads back over to Arthur, his eyes taking in everything on the computer screens, his mind quickly working to translate everything he's seeing before he sighs in relief. "Good, everything looks normal."

Tony rolls his eyes. "Obviously. Now stop fucking worrying. Just do this and fucking get it over with so you can get that fucking limey off my fucking ship."

Alfred chuckles. "Fine, fine. I get it. I'll start now."

He moves a bit closer to the operating table, staring down at Arthur's peacefully sleeping face and smiling sadly before steeling his gaze, his eyes seeming to darken in color. Finally, with one last breath, he braces himself for what he's about to do. He tentatively brings the scalpel down to Arthur's chest, hovering above the words on Arthur's chest before gulping and beginning to cut into the barely healed scars of the letters, blood already beginning to ooze from the newly-formed injuries. Alfred is completely desensitized to blood—you can't get through medical school if you're squeamish, not to mention the years of bloodshed he's seen on battlefields—yet he still finds himself sick to his stomach, because this isn't just _anyone's_ blood... this is _Arthur's _blood. Arthur's blood, that _he's_ making leak out of Arthur's body, that he's….

"Snap the fuck out of it or he's going to fucking bleed all over my fucking ship."

Tony's voice draws him out of his daze, his voice sounding annoyed, but also slightly worried. "R-right. Sorry." He steels his gaze once more before continuing to cut into Arthur's chest, bringing the scalpel in a straight line across Arthur's chest and ignoring the blood to the best of his ability. This is made a bit easier when Tony comes with a clean rag and starts carefully wiping the blood away, scowling and speaking in an annoyed tone.

"I'm just fucking doing this so I don't have fucking limey blood all over my fucking ship."

Alfred smiles slightly. "Thanks Tony, I appreciate the help."

Tony rolls his eyes but doesn't respond, and Alfred moves his focus back to Arthur's chest, continuing to carefully and methodically cut straight lines across Arthur's flesh, the scalpel stained red with Arthur's blood within the first few minutes. After about an hour or so, Alfred puts the bloodied scalpel down, wiping the sweat off of his face with the back of his arm.

"Okay, one part done."

Tony moves and takes a bottle of clear liquid and a rag out of the medicine cabinet before handing them to Alfred. "Here. Don't forget to fucking clean out the cuts before fucking closing them up… not that I fucking care if the fucking limey gets fucking infected or anything."

Alfred takes the bottle and rag gratefully, smiling slightly. "Thanks again. Seriously, I don't know what the hell I'd do without you here helping out."

"...Just shut up and fucking finish up with the fucking limey already."

Alfred nods and carefully starts to clean out the cuts running across Arthur's chest, occasionally glancing up at Arthur's face to make sure that he's still sleeping peacefully, which he thankfully is. Once he's sure that the cuts are fully cleaned out, he puts down the bloodied rag and picks up the device, his eyebrows scrunched together in concentration as he turns it on and tentatively puts the tip to the very edge of the first slash across Arthur's chest, slowly and carefully moving it across the line and watching as the wound closes behind him in a manner similar to a zipper being zipped up.

He doesn't even realize how long he stands over Arthur—carefully closing up each and every line across Arthur's chest—but once he finishes, he feels completely drained, yet relieved and overjoyed at the sight of Arthur's scar-free chest. The stitches have already melted and his chest looks just like it had before this whole mess began… or just like what he _assumed_ it look like. It's not like he'd ever eyed Arthur on the rare occasions he managed to catch him without a shirt or anything like that. Not at all.

Putting the device down, Alfred glances at the computer for the time, frowning. "Two and a half hours… fuck, I didn't realize I took that long. Good thing I gave him enough for three hours. It would've been a disaster if I didn't." He takes off his bloodied gloves and coat and tosses them carelessly to the floor, his attention on Arthur. Tony sighs in annoyance before snapping his fingers, and all of the bloodied tools and clothes disappear, presumably to somewhere within the ship that they could be cleaned.

Alfred is satisfied to see that Arthur still appears to be out cold, and he turns his attention to Tony. "Yo, you think you could beam me back down to Artie's house for a bit? There's a couple of things I have to do before we erase his memory, and I figure I'd better do them before he wakes up."

Tony nods, typing a few things on one of the computers before a light surrounds Alfred just as it had before. Alfred lands in Arthur's house, right where he'd been with Arthur before he'd called Tony. He realizes belatedly that he doesn't have his phone with him to call Tony back and he frowns, hoping that Tony's ship will accept a call from Arthur's house phone before starting to do what he needs to do.

He first picks up the pair of pants that Arthur had been wearing before he'd helped him change, checking if the pockets are empty before carrying them with him to Arthur's bedroom, where he picks up Arthur's discarded shirt, as well as England's collar and leash, bringing everything downstairs to the fireplace. He lights the fireplace up again before throwing the ripped and bloodied clothes in, watching them burn before staring at the collar and leash still in his hands. He feels sick to his stomach as he stares at the items, and he quickly snaps himself out of his daze and starts ripping up the collar, followed by the leash, throwing the pieces into the fireplace. He figures that they'd burn faster if they were in small pieces.

Alfred watches them burn for a little while before he remembers to check the time, cursing to himself once he sees what time it is. "Fuck. He's going to be up in ten minutes, and I'm still not done…."

Alfred heads out of the living room and down into Arthur's basement, heading over to the large circle on the ground where the spellbook rests, picking it up and putting it back where he remembered England taking it from before sighing. He shivers as he feels _something_ watching him, and he recalls that Arthur has creatures living in this house that Alfred can't see.

_But Arthur can see them... What if one of them ends up reminding him about what happened after I erase his memories? _

Alfred feels completely foolish and ridiculous for even entertaining thoughts like this, but for Arthur, he's willing to even suspend his disbelief in the supernatural if it means that Arthur will be safe. He tentatively speaks up, keeping his eyes on the ground nervously. "...Look. I don't know if there's really something in here with me, or if there's really something in this house other than Arthur, but even if I'm just talking to air right now, it's better to be safe than sorry—I'm going to erase Arthur's memories so he'll have no recollection of anything that happened after the World Meeting last week. Please be careful and don't remind him, because if he tries to remember after having his memories erased... I honestly don't know what would happen, but I can only assume that it would be bad."

He waits for a second or two, listening for any sort of sound that might signal someone having heard and understood him, and he sighs and shakes his head when he doesn't hear anything. _I knew it was ridiculous to even try. There's obviously no such things as fairies or ghosts or anything else that Arthur says is living here. _

Of course, Alfred has no way of knowing that there were indeed fairies listening to him, who did attempt to respond, but their responses were unable to reach Alfred's ears because of his lingering disbelief.

Alfred goes back upstairs and glances at the time, cursing once more as he realizes that he's only got five more minutes to get back on the ship before Arthur wakes up. He rushes for Arthur's phone, grateful that he remembers Tony's number despite having him on speed dial as he quickly dials the number. It rings once before Tony picks up.

"He's not up yet, right?"

"No, he's not fucking up, fucking calm down already. I'll fucking beam you up now."

Alfred lets out a relieved sigh. "Thanks, dude." He hangs up and is surrounded by light once more, landing in the room with Arthur. Alfred rushes over to Arthur and lets out another relieved sigh upon seeing him still sleeping peacefully, with three minutes left before the anesthesia wears off.

Tony shuts down the computers in the room before leaving, muttering something about not wanting to be around the "fucking limey" when he wakes up. The door closes behind him, leaving Arthur and Alfred alone in the room.

Smiling, Alfred looks down at Arthur's serene expression, hoping that there comes a day where he'd be able to see such an expression on Arthur's face without the aid of a powerful, otherworldly form of anesthesia running through his system. He moves his hand and gently runs his fingertips over every inch of Arthur's face—from his cheeks, to his eyebrows, to his nose, to his lips, which he lingers on the longest, tracing his fingertips around the edges before running them over their slightly chapped and cut surface. He moves slowly, his touch feather-light as he tries to commit the feeling of Arthur's skin against his own to memory, knowing that it's going to be quite some time before he'll ever be able to get this close to Arthur again once he wipes Arthur's memory.

"I'm going to miss this so much," he whispers. "I'm going to miss _you_ so much... but I'll stay strong. I'll remember for the both of us. I'll keep trying for the both of us. That's what heroes do, right? Heroes take on the burden for others, to protect the ones they love... and I love you so much, Arthur. So much that I'm willing to be the only one to remember 'us' if that's what it takes to protect you. No matter how much it may hurt, no matter how hard it may be…." He glances at the time, smiling as he sees that it's been exactly three hours. "...Well, it isn't midnight, but it's the right time on the dot. Close enough, right?"

Leaning over, Alfred gently presses his lips to Arthur's, running his hand through Arthur's hair. He only briefly pulls away to speak, preparing himself for what is to come.

"Alright 'Sleeping Beauty', time to wake up…."

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**A/N: **I have the last chapter written and will be posting it in a couple hours or later tomorrow. There is a bit of news I have to post at the end of this fic, as the RP itself does not end at the next chapter, and I would be willing to write a sequel detailing the end of the RP. Plus, there is also the AU that I will be posting as a bonus chapter.

Thank you so very, very much for all the feedback and for sticking with us thus far!


	15. Erasing the Evidence

**A/N:** Here we go! The final chapter!

Please, please read the ending note at the end of this chapter for a special announcement.

* * *

Arthur could say that he had closed his eyes for a split second—that he only blinked—but once he wakes up, he groggily opens his eyes to feel a slight numbing sensation on his chest. Whatever he was supposed to feel was suppressed for now.

"Hm… A-Alfred?" he asks, shielding his eyes from the light as he attempts to reach for him.

Alfred grins, relieved as Arthur begins to wake up. "Shush, don't move, just relax." He gently kisses Arthur's lips, continuing to run his fingers through Arthur's hair. "I'm right here." He kisses Arthur again, lingering a bit longer before pulling back to speak. "How are you feeling? Still numb?"

The Englishman eases back against the table. "Mm. Is it over?" he slurs, trying to overcome the drug clearing out of his system. "Is it…?" He trails off at the kisses, blinking away sleep as he tries to register Alfred's question. Once he does, he offers a lazy smile. "...Can't feel anything, if that's what you mean."

Smiling slightly in return before sighing, Alfred keeps his fingers strumming through Arthur's hair. "Well, that's it as far as your chest goes, but I've still got to take care of your memories..." Alfred seriously isn't looking forward to that, but he knows it has to be done. "...But as long as the anesthesia's still in your system, there's no point in rushing." He smiles and kisses Arthur again, feeling the need to get as many kisses in as possible before he has to erase Arthur's memories.

Arthur lets out a delicate sigh, humming slightly when Alfred's fingers rake through his hair, even more so when he's kissed again. "...My memories." His statement punctuates the end of his bliss as he looks back at Alfred with grim resignation. "Yes. I suppose that has to be done eventually, doesn't it?"

Alfred looks at Arthur sympathetically, his expression showing that he's not all that happy about it either. "…Yes, it does. You and I both know that as soon as the anesthesia starts wearing off, you're going to go back to the way you were just before." He kisses Arthur's forehead. "…I love you, Artie, and I don't want to have to see you suffering like that ever again." He moves and goes back to kissing Arthur's lips gently, trying to make them both forget what has to be done, if only for a little bit. He pulls away to speak once more. "…Don't think about it right now. I don't want to waste this time thinking about what has to be done." He kisses his way down from Arthur's lips, to his jaw, and down his neck, with the sole intention of wanting to make Arthur feel good and momentarily forget what has to be done.

Aware of the subtle pleasures on his skin, Arthur is grateful for the touches, able to relax for the moment, knowing that as soon as they were about to go through the whole process, he wouldn't be this calm. "…I know," he whispers hollowly, inwardly terrified. He has no idea what will happen. Will he remember this time he has shared with Alfred? Will he not? And how will they go about this… or rather, how will Alfred go about this? _If_ Arthur lost his memories, there would be nothing he could do about it.

The kisses on his neck melt those thoughts away and he closes his eyes, reaching to pull Alfred nearer to him as he sits up a little, kissing him on his lips. Alfred feels Arthur trying to sit up and pull him closer to kiss him, and Alfred complies with his unspoken wish, moving his lips back up to Arthur's and kissing him while moving an arm behind Arthur to support him.

When they part for air, Arthur takes Alfred's hand curiously, matching up their fingers. Arthur's smaller hand presses against Alfred's larger, their fingers resting against one another. Alfred feels another surge of protectiveness hit him as he sees how small Arthur's hand is compared to his own, Arthur gently lacing their digits together. He winds his fingers around to press Alfred's hand to his heart.

"...Don't ever forget that I love you," he echoes from earlier. "This is not the end, love."

Alfred smiles even wider. "...I know. I won't forget. I won't ever forget. I love you too much to forget." He pulls Arthur a bit closer to him, pressing their lips together once more. In the back of his mind, he knows that the anesthesia is probably almost fully worn off by this point, meaning that he's going to have to wipe Arthur's memories very soon, but he tries his best not to think about it.

Arthur kisses back, wanting it to last. He closes his eyes and eases into Alfred. He's starting to feel something on his chest—a dull ache. Arthur frowns and pulls away. "...I can feel something." He keeps his hand in Alfred's, giving it a squeeze. "...I think that it's…." He can tell by Alfred's expression what this meant.

It meant that it was near time.

Arthur bites his lip and averts his gaze. He doesn't want to see the sadness in Alfred's eyes. He doesn't want to know that he's the cause of it every time he looks at him. "...I'm so sorry. I don't have to do this. I can try and deal with it."

"No, Arthur," Alfred cuts in. "You have to. I won't be able to live with myself if I let you continue to suffer like this just for me." He attempts to smile. "Heroes can't be selfish. Heroes put their loved ones before themselves."

Arthur frowns. "But it's not bloody worth it if I'm going to make you suffer—!" He breaks off when Alfred kisses him once more, scowling. "You're such a git, you know that? Not letting me worry about you." His voice lowers, almost inaudible. "I hate it."

Alfred reluctantly moves to pick Arthur up, gently cradling him against his chest. He doesn't comment on what Arthur has said, unable to think of a proper response. "The machine is in another room not too far from here. We should head over there now." He knows that Arthur can most likely walk on his own by this point, but he wants to enjoy the feeling of holding Arthur in his arms one last time.

_No, I can't think like that. It's only for a little while... All I've got to do is convince him again that I love him, and we can go back to acting like this... right? _

He starts walking out of the room, his pace slow and hesitant as he continues to hold Arthur against his chest, making sure to keep his grip light enough that he doesn't hurt Arthur.

Arthur clings to him in response, clearly upset. "I don't want to be the cause of your pain, ever. I promised myself that. And now look." He drops his head. "I'm such a fool. I should never have walked out of the conference room." He presses tightly into Alfred, sighing. "I should have just shut my mouth and sat back down. None of this ever would have happened if I did."

Alfred frowns, continuing to walk slowly as he speaks. "That's not true. None of this would've happened if I'd just thought before I spoke. If I hadn't said such a horrible thing to you in the first place, you never would've had any reason to leave." He reaches the room much more quickly than he would've liked, putting Arthur down briefly to unlock the door.

Arthur gently touches the ground, wobbling on his feet. "…Oh Alfred… you can't always blame yourself." He places a hand on Alfred's shoulder to steady himself, the last traces of the anesthetic wearing off. Arthur helps Alfred by climbing up in his arms when he goes to reach for him once more to bring him into the room, burying his face in his neck. He inhales the smell of his skin—a sweet scent, of vanilla milkshakes and the subtle hint of leather. He clutches Alfred's jacket, knowing it would be very long before he would be able to wear it.

The room is much smaller than the other room that they were in—the only things in this room are a large computer and a metal chair with what looks like a helmet attached to the neck of the chair. Wires line the floor of the room, all of them connecting either from the computer to the wall, or the computer to the chair, and Alfred steps over them carefully as he approaches the chair.

Situating Arthur in the chair, Alfred hesitates only slightly before pulling the helmet attached to the chair down on Arthur's head. He fastens it on tightly, but not tight enough to hurt him. Arthur has already begun to squirm in nervous dread. The helmet feels constricting to him, something that frightened him after his imprisonment.

Alfred can see all this, however, giving Arthur a quick kiss on the lips before walking over to the computer. He starts to set everything up, speaking while typing away at the computer. "It'll take a few minutes to get everything up and running, and the process… Well, I've never used this on myself, so I don't exactly know what it's going to be like, but I'm pretty sure that it won't hurt or anything."

"...A-all right," Arthur says in confirmation, calming slightly in wake of the kiss as he watches Alfred move around to try and quell his fears.

"This thing is just going to reset your mind back to the way it was right before you got sucked into that other world, but as for what it's going to _feel_ like, well… I think you're just going to black out, and when you wake up…." Alfred smiles sadly, his tone of voice completely reflecting his heartbreak despite his best attempts to appear okay for Arthur's sake. "...Well, when you wake up, it'll all be over, and you'll be all better."

"...Alfred." Arthur feels a pang of longing in his chest as he can sense Alfred's sadness, radiating towards him. "I... I won't be _all_ better," he whispers. "Not without you."

The room is silent aside from the quiet sound of Alfred typing away at the computer, so Arthur's whispered statement reaches Alfred's ears. He sighs, stopping what he's doing and going back over to Arthur, kissing him lightly again. "I'm still going to be here Arthur—I'm not going anywhere, and you know that." He puts on a smile that is paper-thin. "C'mon, you should be happy, Artie! You won't have to remember any of the stuff that happened in that other world! You won't have to remember any memories that aren't yours... you'll be able to go back to the way you were before all this happened! Isn't that a good thing?"

Arthur looks at Alfred's smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, releasing a defeated sigh. Alfred wasn't going to give this up… not by a long shot. "…I know _you_ aren't going anywhere. But I will be. I'll be so far away. We'll have to start all over again from the beginning. I... I want to remember some things from that world. I want to remember how much you love me, so when I'm terrible to you, I can stop right away and remind myself that you don't deserve it."

Alfred shakes his head. "…It's fine if we have to start from the beginning. And unfortunately, it doesn't work like that—it's all or nothing. Besides, even if we could pick and choose which memories to have you keep, you'd just end up confused by having random memories, right? And then there's always the chance that just having those memories might trigger the other memories coming back... There's just no way it'd work." He manages a wry smile. "It doesn't matter whether I deserve it or not—I'll take anything you can throw at me, as long as I know that you don't mean it and that you love me like I love you."

Arthur grips the arms of the chair, clutching the ends with white knuckles. "You're such an idiot," he breathes. "No one in their right mind would put up with this."

The computer makes a noise to signal that it is almost done warming up, and Alfred is finding it so incredibly difficult to hold his tears back, but he knows that he has to stay strong for Arthur's sake—he has to let Arthur see that he's going to be fine, even with Arthur's memory of their reciprocated feelings gone_. I can be strong... I'm the hero. I'm Arthur's hero. I have to stay strong for Arthur._

As he looks up at Alfred, Arthur can see the moisture resting there in the tears he is struggling not to shed. Arthur feels his own tears build up—this all seems too much like a permanent goodbye. Like Alfred is leaving him again.

Alfred cups the side of Arthur's face in his hand before kissing Arthur as deeply as he can with the helmet still on Arthur's head, reluctant to pull away as he knows that this will be the last kiss he'll have with Arthur for a long time. Arthur gives everything he has into the kiss, wanting so deeply to relish it… to be able to remember Alfred's lips on his when this is all gone.

Finally, after another minute or two, Alfred forces himself to pull away. "...I love you, Arthur." He offers a determined smile, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "It'll take some time, but I'll find a way to convince you again that I love you."

"…I love you too," Arthur breathes in the reprieve.

Alfred takes Arthur's hands in his own, trying to lighten the mood. "The first thing I'll do is I'll take you out on a date—out to a five-star restaurant, because you deserve nothing less than the best, and then maybe we'll go see a movie, or go somewhere else, anywhere that you want to go, because I want to go wherever will make you happiest. And when our date is over, we'll walk back to my house, or your house, wherever we are, and I'll stop you right outside the door, and I'll tell you what I've told you already." He pauses, his voice growing lower. "'I love you, I always _have_ loved you and I always _will_ love you. And I want to be by your side for the rest of eternity.' And then we'll kiss, and I'll see if I can manage to convince Tony to set off some fireworks or something in the background to make it even more dramatic and amazing."

Tears spill down Arthur's face as he offers a weak laugh to Alfred's suggestions, wiping them away with shaking fingers. Alfred chuckles slightly before bringing Arthur's hands up to his lips, kissing the back of each one before locking eyes with Arthur. A wide, honest smile rests proudly on his face. "And I'm not going to give up, no matter how long it takes to get us to that point. So don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

Arthur blushes at the unexpected gesture of chivalry. Alfred looked so... mature. So strong. So grown up—something Arthur had grown to treasure. He takes a deep breath before speaking. "I'll love you forever, you idiot." He cracks a smile. "...And you better not let me forget it for your part, understand?"

"I won't. I promise." Alfred holds his smile while reluctantly letting go of Arthur's hands, moving back over to the computer. The machine attached to the helmet comes to life at Alfred's keystrokes, lighting up as the process begins. "Just close your eyes and relax," Alfred calls to Arthur. "You'll hurt yourself if you try and fight it."

Arthur's heart breaks when their grasp slips, fingers sliding out of reach. He curls his hand up in a fist, resting it on his lap. He doesn't say anything else, breathing in and out, trying to fight the rising fear in his chest.

Alfred finishes typing in the preparations before moving back over to Arthur, taking Arthur's hands in his own once more. "I'll be right here with you the whole time, Arthur…."

Arthur grips tightly to Alfred's hands, wanting to remember that look in his eyes—the love just for him—before he had to lose it. He closes his eyes when there is a gnawing at his mind, like something is shearing his memories apart, tearing their fabric to pieces and swallowing them up. It's not painful—just disorienting. He feels himself trying to scramble to reach for his memories—like pieces of a puzzle abandoned, disappearing. It makes him feel incomplete, and for a split second he's terrified.

Arthur feels like he's falling… falling into dark water, unable to look back from where he came. He's submerged into the unknown.

What did he retain? What did he forget?

Then, as if a switch has been flipped, all of his worries are gone. He can only feel a soft warmth… a peaceful sleep overtaking him as he cannot remember for the life of him what he had to do that was so important for the day….

_Arthur…._

Alfred watches with a sad smile as Arthur's features become more and more relaxed as his mind is relieved of the torture-filled memories of not one, but _two_ timelines, resetting back to the way it was when he left the World Meeting a week ago.

Finally, the machine dies down, Arthur's features peaceful, and Alfred continues to smile sadly, ignoring the pain in his chest and the tears that stream down his cheeks as he carefully pulls the helmet off of Arthur and gently presses his lips to Arthur's forehead.

Tony takes this moment to come into the room, and, taking one look at both Alfred and Arthur, speaks up in a quiet voice.

"…I'll send the fucking limey home for you."

Unable to even speak, Alfred merely nods, watching dimly as Arthur disappears in a flash of light before his legs give out on him and he falls to his knees, suddenly hit with an overwhelming feeling of loneliness and despair as everything finally barrages him all at once. Yet, through it all, he still manages to smile through his tears… if not for himself, then for Arthur, who is finally free of the burden of his torturous memories.

Even if it means that Alfred has to take on that burden himself.

_I was a hero, wasn't I? I protected you, didn't I? I could be your hero... Couldn't I?_

* * *

**A/N: **That last quote _should_ be familiar... ;) Thanks to HetaOni for providing a perfect ending.

Or is it the end?

Truth be told, this is _not_ where the RP that this fic is based on ends. In fact, it is only the beginning! There is still very more to this plotline, and I would be willing to write up the rest of it in a sequel to this story if requested.

The rest of this RP deals with Alfred and Arthur struggling to readjust to life with Arthur not remembering Alfred, and Alfred being plagued by conflicting emotions and nightmares of the other world. It is heavy on split personality disorder, and there will be... two of our beloved Alfred, for better or worse, as a side effect of post-traumatic stress. There's plenty of fluff, angst, and... intimate times to be had in the sequel!

If this interests you, please say so in a review!

Do you not feel like you've heard enough about a possible sequel? Well, head on over to the last chapter, because we have teased a bit of the possible sequel for you.

The very _next_ chapter of this story is an AU to Orchard of Mines titled Radioactive, in which a different ending is presented just for fun (and angst purposes), so make sure to check that out as well.

As always, thank you very much, and my RP partner and I hope you have enjoyed this story!


	16. Radioactive (AU)

**A/N: **This is an **alternate ending **to Orchard of Mines. This is **in no way is a continuation** of Orchard of Mines. It is simply a "what if..." to the idea of Alfred and Arthur having to find... another way to get home from America and England's world, if you will.

This was done purely because of a plotbunny, and an angsty one at that. Consider it a special treat (...that Orchard of Mines didn't end this way, oops).

* * *

America lies unconscious on the floor, England bleeding a few feet away from him. The return trip has failed to enact itself. England had used his last bit of magic that would have returned Arthur and Alfred home in order to subdue America. After England had been shot by America, his first move was to freeze America in place, keeping him from attacking Arthur or Alfred. While Arthur sees this as foolish—he or Alfred could have stopped America—he knew England had very much given up, and knew Arthur contained enough magic in him to spawn a return trip for Arthur and Alfred alone.

England had no hope of surviving.

Arthur and Alfred sit in silence, Arthur looking between Alfred and England before him. He knows that he has to use his magic in order to get them home… but he is still very limited after being abused so horribly for days without much rest to recharge his magic. It came down to two things: England's life, or Arthur and Alfred's escape.

"Pick him up, Alfred," Arthur says suddenly.

Wiping at his eyes, Alfred lifts his head. "H-huh?"

Arthur's eyes are trained on England's dying form, England's dulled greens searching for Arthur's slightly more vibrant ones. "...Pick him up. Go on. Hold him tight and don't you dare let go."

"...Arthur…."

Offering a smile, Arthur gets up, doing his very best to hide the sharp pain assaulting him from his kneecap that's barely healed. "There, see? I can walk just fine now. He can't."

A portal begins to shimmer from behind them at Arthur's command, Alfred's frame encased its glow. He eyes Arthur, assessing him for sincerity.

"...You're lying."

Shaking his head, Arthur forces himself to step forward. "Can you at least lift him for me? Please."

Warily, Alfred complies, hoisting England into his arms. The smaller man doesn't do much to move against him or hold to him, not having the strength. England's eyes dimly focus on Arthur's as Arthur approaches him, hands out. England leans into Alfred, eyes not quite trusting.

"Relax," Arthur says, not unkind. He places his hands over England's heart, his expression completely focused.

"A-Artie...? What are you doing?" Alfred can barely hide the panic in his voice, craning his neck to get a visual.

Arthur closes his eyes. _I'm sorry, Alfred._ "Healing him." He lets his magic flow into England, seeing the stream of it swirl around him until it slips through his veins, coloring his skin again and lighting up his hollow irises. Arthur continues until his very last drop is nearly drained, the only bits he has left suffice enough to keep the portal standing for a few moments more. He steps back, nearly swaying as his body feels off balance without use of his magic, the link broken when he forced it all into England. His magical sight is even gone, Arthur unable to see the flow of magic like he normally could.

"Arthur. Arthur, what did you do?"

"I told you," he says, meeting Alfred's eyes directly—a little _too_ directly. "I healed him. He would have died if I hadn't." Inside, every inch of him wants to scream, want to shake, wants to reach for Alfred. _Don't leave me here_. _I don't want to stay here_.

The portal tremors, flickering as Arthur curses. "We don't have very much time," he breathes, dizzy. Arthur puts a hand at Alfred's back, pushing him forward. "Hurry, Alfred."

Not moving, Alfred turns back to him. "Arthur... You're coming too, aren't you?" Arthur goes to reply hastily, Alfred cutting him off with a sincere look, ripping through him. "Aren't you?"

Arthur smiles brightly. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" _I can't keep the portal open for myself... If only he hadn't used his magic to protect us._

"Arthur, look at me when you say that. You can't... Don't do this to me."

Taking England's hand, Arthur presses it into Alfred's that cradles him. "Hold him tightly, all right?"

"Arthur."

"Don't let go."

"Arthur."

"...Keep him safe and follow that light."

"Arthur!"

He finally realizes he's shaking, tears sparkling in his eyes. "Y-yes?"

"Arthur, walk in front of me. If you're coming with, you can do that, can't you?"

His eyes widening, Arthur finds he can't meet Alfred's gaze. "Yes... I suppose I can do that, can't I?" He nears the portal, verging on its edge and stepping through, a tunnel of light stretched out before him in swirling blues and greens. He just needs Alfred to cross halfway before he can close it, leaving Arthur on the side of the other world and Alfred on the side of theirs. He lingers back, eyes on the ground, stopping just before the halfway mark.

Alfred follows, making it to where Arthur has stopped, taking an extra step without thinking. He shuffles England in his hold, turning back to Arthur. "Well?"

Arthur attempts to take one more step, and the portal is suddenly attacked by what seems like lightning strikes, Alfred wincing. He turns to Arthur, taking another step back. Arthur smiles, tears blurring his vision. He gives Alfred a kiss on the forehead, stepping away from him.

"I love you," he whispers. "Don't wait for me."

Alfred's eyes widen, him going to take a step just as the portal vanishes, disappearing in tendrils of smoke. The ground before him where Arthur once stood is empty, nothing but Arthur's spellbooks and magical equipment around the room.

"…Arthur?" he calls, whirling around the room frantically, still gripping England tight. "Arthur! Arthur!" He starts to mumble words of denial, shaking his head. The portal… the portal had… Arthur was….

"_Arthur!_"

From the other world, Arthur stares blankly at the space before him, twirling his fingers around the lingering smoke. Tears have long since slipped down his face, but Arthur doesn't make a noise. He didn't have enough magic to keep that portal open for himself and keep England alive.

The spell keeping America frozen comes undone, Arthur not even aware of it. He is transfixed on the spot where Alfred had stood mere seconds ago, desperately wanting to feel his lips on his once more. He only is pulled out of his daze when a cruel hand grips for his throat, a voice snarling near the shell of his ear.

"We weren't finished yet, pet," America hisses. "We have so many games we haven't played yet."

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, wanting to plead for Alfred to help him before he realizes that Alfred will never be able to reach this world again. Not now that the portal was sealed of Arthur's magic. England would need Arthur to find this world once more before he could even hope to send Arthur back home.

"'Weave a circle 'round him thrice, and close your eyes in holy dread'," America whispers, Arthur recognizing the poem. America tightens his grip around Arthur's neck, crushing his windpipe as he lifts Arthur into the air. "'For he on honeydew hath fed'…."

Arthur's vision grows spotty, him choking and clawing at America's hand, on the verge of blacking out. America doesn't seem to want to wait for that, spinning around quickly to bash Arthur's head into the wall with brutal force. This alone does the job, Arthur sinking to the floor on his way out of consciousness. He hears one final thing marking his descent into a permanent hell—his new life.

"'And drunk the milk of Paradise'…."

* * *

He managed to make it here, God knows how. After recovering Canada's body with France, as well as many of the others, Arthur had only one request. It had been granted, one of the Empire's confiscated planes—the Empire seal spray painted over to avoid any firings—flying him over to his trampled country. It was barren, charred, and burned to the ground in its entirety. The dilapidated island was crumbling because of England's captivity and eventual disappearance.

Disappearance with Alfred.

_"…Keep him safe and follow that light."_

Had it really been five years?

Shrugging it off, Arthur surveys his country, the streets barren—whatever is left of them. Ash and bone lie about, skeletons rotting without any rat to feast on whatever flesh flakes off of them. There was no life. Nothing. The remnants of Westminster Abbey are nearly unrecognizable, Buckingham Palace nothing but a ruin of stone and abstract items that managed to survive the firefight. Rubble from the Palace of Westminster has tumbled into the River Thames, the water an ugly brown on account of the rusting metal debris sent tumbling into its depths. Big Ben is long since gone; that was probably one of the first things they—America—destroyed. It broke the people's spirit, and America was an expert on that.

Even in death he had to be, because Arthur came to die here.

He knows America would have left it somewhat standing, for sentiments sake. Because despite his ruthless nature, he still shared some aspects of his old self—that part of him that kept mementos. Arthur remembers walking in on America once when he had been summoned, America holding a toy soldier in his hand. That was how Arthur's tongue had been cut out.

It regrew when he regenerated, but still. The intentions remained.

Arthur shuffles through the streets, passing where the conference center would have been, where Alfred and him had fought, taking the tattered street he had taken back then to get home. He can't bear to look at the familiar sights, or lack thereof. He keeps his eyes down as he navigates through rubble and charred remains.

He only looks up upon reaching the remains of his home.

The roof has caved in, the edges and most of the structure charred black. Weeds have begun to escalate up the walls, finding any crack they could to seize hold of his home. Arthur enters the home through the doorway rather then the gaping hole in the side. Why he does so, he can't answer. He supposes it is tradition.

His home is in complete disarray, as expected. His things are strewn about in the corner where the most damage has been done, where fire had presumably started before it was cut short. The latter half of his home is still standing, although nature has run its course, and the continued exposure to the air hasn't helped much. Arthur doesn't bother to check anything else, heading straight for his bedroom. He finds his mattress, perfectly intact, the comforter made up neatly. The sight hurts more than anything else—more than seeing his city destroyed, more than seeing his home in ruins….

It was because this is what he _should_ have come home to five years ago. But he never got the chance to.

Arthur crawls into his bed, frame trembling. He's aware of the tears that are rapidly pooling at his jawline, slipping down onto his neck. He curls up over the comforter, holding to the raggedy clothing barely covering his frame. Arthur takes one breath, which is all he needs before he can't hold anything in anymore, violent sobs wracking his body. He keeps to the side of the bed he would sleep on, trying his best to feel at home.

He grips the poison in his pocket, the same they had used on America. The same poison Arthur would use to kill himself.

_Alfred... I'm sorry, my love. I can never get back to you. I don't want you to wait. The portal is closed, and it will remain so._

His sobs grow harsher, Arthur realizing just how much he missed Alfred's every touch, how he had never stopped thinking, hoping, praying... just to see him again.

_I want to see you_.

Arthur is unaware of when he fell asleep, out of exhaustion, crying, or both. All he knows is that the sun sets on the ruins of London, giving way to the last night he will ever see.

* * *

Alfred holds a device in his hands, wiping at his tears. He had plunged himself into experimentation with teleportation and transportation, and with Tony's help, he had created a formula to fuel Alfred's travel through different universes to Arthur.

Five years. Five fucking years of waiting for a breakthrough, and the only way he could ever achieve it was at the expense of someone's life, because that is exactly what it took for the travel to work.

A lifetime of magic.

England saw fit to sacrifice himself when he had learned the news, no matter how much Alfred had protested….

_"I don't serve a purpose anymore, Alfred."_

_ "That isn't true! You're alive, just like Arthur, just like anyone else. There's no reason why you should have to—? H-Hey... Look at me! Don't do this, please!"_

His fist clenches around the device, Alfred leaning back against the bed—Arthur's bed. He climbs onto it, lying on his back. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine Arthur lying next to him, and he swears he can hear sobbing... can feel an added weight on the other side.

"I want to see you," Alfred whispers. "I want to see you, Arthur."

_I want to see you_.

The thought is so clear, so sharp, that Alfred nearly sits up in shock. It's definitely Arthur's voice, there's no mistaking that. He looks around. It couldn't have been England….

"A-Artie...?" he calls tentatively. There's no answer, Alfred lying back. "I'm going crazy, aren't I?"

He figures that he'll transport himself to Arthur—England's—house, knowing it would still be left standing in that timeline. It would leave him a way to go in unnoticed. He highly doubted that America would allow Arthur the freedom to travel to his home, as much as the thought sickened him. Alfred takes a breath, holding the device up in front of him.

"I'm coming, Arthur. Sorry I couldn't keep my promise," he offers, a pained smile playing on his face. "I waited."

He presses a button on the device, the room disappearing in a flash of light.

* * *

Arthur wakes up to moonlight streaming through his ceiling through a few cracks, the stars faint in the sky. He can feel his eyes burn from exhaustion, Arthur fishing for the poison. Now seemed like a better time than ever... or maybe that wasn't true. He had forever to lie here, forever to consider killing himself. No one was coming for him. He wasn't even of this world.

He moves to unscrew the cork before he feels something beside him, his hands quickly moving for the tiny blade he had stolen from the rebel headquarters. It boasts dried blood and a faint rust, but it is hardly dull, Arthur having nicked himself on it a few times while it was in his boot before deciding to just carry it in his pocket. He swings it outward, hearing something fall to the floor beside the bed. Arthur is quick, landing where the person would have been lying, had they not been faster.

"Your traveling all the way here just to finish me off was quite inconvenient on your behalf." He dangles to vial in the air. "If you would have had half the mind to wait, I could have already been a quarter of the way there."

The stranger hangs back in the shadows, but Arthur can hear their sudden sharp intake of breath. He frowns, twirling the blade.

"Well? Lost your fight?"

The stranger infringes on a wedge of moonlight, illuminating their features. It's their eyes that catch in the light, pure cerulean sparkling with a renewed flame. The sight sends Arthur staggering back, gritting his teeth.

"A-America," he hisses, the blade in his hand trembling from his fear. "I see the poison did no justice, did it? Was it a failure? Or did you cheat it?"

There is no response, Arthur giving an exasperated noise.

"The least you could bloody do is let me die in peace, for all of the hell you have caused me. Don't you think cutting me up into tiny pieces every day was enough? Losing England wasn't enough either?" Arthur knows he's pushing his buttons. Maybe he wants to. Maybe it would be easier if he went out by the hand of another. There was no room for cowardice that way.

"...Artie?"

The blade slips in Arthur's hold, Arthur's hostile stance rippled by shock. _That voice... There's no way._

Gentle blue eyes that could have never belonged to America focus on him, that familiar jacket illuminated with light. Arthur blinks, lowering the blade until it clatters to the floor somewhere in between the tears springing to his eyes. He puts a hand over his mouth, expression frozen as he shakes his head.

_It can't be. It can't._

The vial shatters to the ground, Arthur edging forward. What looks like Alfred… he doesn't move, expression mirroring Arthur's. Reaching out a hand, Arthur's palm meets Alfred's, trying to align their fingers together, Arthur's look that of pure concentration. America had a scar on his arm... All that is there is soft and unmarked flesh.

"...A-Alfred?" he whispers.

The force of the hug is enough to send him backwards into the bed, falling against the mattress onto his back. Alfred's arms encircle around his waist, face pressing into his shoulder. Arthur clings to him, unable to vocalize the questions about his presence. Being in his hold is mind-numbing. He never wants to let go, fingers digging into Alfred's jacket.

"Arthur."

Alfred repeats him name over and over, stroking his hair, his tears spilling onto Arthur's cheeks. Arthur finds he can't see past his own tears, nearly sobbing.

"Alfred, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I told you not to wait! I told you—!"

He's silenced by Alfred's lips on his, a starved and hungry kiss spiraling out of control. Five years—all of the cravings and desperation from five years of separation engulfs the two of them, driving words from their lips as Arthur practically attacks Alfred in returning the gesture, pulling him so they're lying on the bed side by side. Arthur moves up so he's nearly on top of him, wanting a better angle as his tongue slips into Alfred's mouth, his breath coming in short, hot puffs.

When they part for air, the sincerity of the moment returns, pressing on them while their labored breaths fill the quiet. Alfred is the first to speak, Arthur relishing the way his expression when he looks at him hasn't changed.

_It's as if he still loves me_. _After all this time_.

"I'm sorry it took me this long," Alfred says, voice breaking as new tears drift down his cheeks. "I'm so sorry. I thought I was too late... I thought... I left you to deal with _him_... I'll never forgive myself."

"N-no, that's not true. I made you go, Alfred. I…."

He can't think of what to say next. _What have you done in the past five years?_ Because Arthur knows it somewhere. He's been replaced. It's hard to feel bitter—he had made Alfred go with England in the first place. It didn't help soften the blow at all.

"...How is he? My other self?" he says, a forced smile on his face. "I bet you two have settled down together, haven't you? Told the others? He loves you, after all. He deserves it."

Alfred's eyes dim at that. "...Arthur. You really think that after all this time—all this time trying to get back to you—that I would bring you back just to leave you? You're not listening to me." He grips for Arthur's shoulders. "I love _you_. You. You are my Arthur, my England. I won't ever love anyone else, whether it's another version of you, or someone different entirely. It's you that I love. It's you that I came back for. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Arthur grits his teeth, wanting so desperately to believe him. "A-Alfred... It's been five years. You can't tell me that you... that…."

"...Have you so little faith in me?" Alfred asks, his expression stern. "I've spent five years trying to find _you—_There is _no one else_."

"B-but what about _him_? Surely he—!"

"—He died, Arthur."

Alfred's voice brings their arguing to an end rather quickly, Arthur pursing his lips before falling completely silent. How do you react to find out you—or a version of you, rather—died? It could have been him. Arthur realizes that thought is selfish, forcing himself to speak.

"...How did it happen?"

Running a shaky hand through his hair, Alfred nods. Arthur can tell it's still a sensitive topic, Alfred unable to look anywhere but the ceiling above them, anywhere but Arthur. "...He died so I could find you. He sacrificed himself so this," he holds up the device, "would work."

The quiet encompasses them for a few moments more before Arthur offers a whispered, "I didn't want that."

"I know you didn't. Babe, please don't blame yourself... I tried to stop him... he…." Alfred turns his head so his eyes lock onto Arthur's. "He missed... _him_... as hard as that is to accept. He was suffering in our world. He was suffering so bad, and I was suffering... and there wasn't anything either of us could do to make the other happier. He was a shell of you, and I was a shell of... h-him. He said he didn't serve a purpose as long as he was in our world, Arthur. He wanted to reunite with him. That's all he wanted."

"...He won't get his wish. He was too good... and Amer—I mean... well you know who I mean... he just wasn't good. They won't see each other. They poisoned him in a form of execution... it was all that would work. He was begging to die when he was holed up in the rebel jail. It's what had to be done."

Alfred shakes his head, "I don't think so."

"What do you mean?"

"No matter how big of a bastard he i—was, England loved him. He'll find a way back to him, and my god I hope that it's for the best."

"...Like you found a way back to me?" Arthur whispers.

Nodding, Alfred cups his cheek, lifting his head. "Yes. Like I found you. And how I'm going to have trouble ever letting go of you for even a second from now on…," he says, his voice breaking. "...I don't ever want to lose you again. Don't ever do that to me again, Arthur. Don't ever leave my side like that... Do you even know how I _felt_?"

Tears spring to Arthur's eyes again, his greens both furious and forlorn. "I told you not to wait for me! I did this for y—!"

"—Don't you say that!" Alfred cries, his hands dropping to Arthur's shoulders. "Don't tell me you did this for me, because how could separating us for _five years_ do _anything_ for me? How?" He shakes Arthur when he doesn't answer, prompting him.

Arthur stares back at him, and Alfred slowly realizes that the shaking he thinks he's doing comes from Arthur's frame trembling on its own. "...You're scaring me, Alfred," he whispers, voice small.

Releasing him, Alfred sits up on the bed, his back turned to Arthur. "...I'm sorry."

Unable to make out the contours of his shoulders in the shadow, Arthur simply drops his head. He's unsure of what is to become of them, if they can even move on from this... Could they survive like this? After being estranged so long? "I'm sorry too." _I'm sorry I let us fall apart._

"They hate me back home, you know."

Alfred's statement is quiet, almost far too quiet for Arthur to catch it. He lifts his head once more in response. "What? What for?"

"England."

"…England?"

Turning back to him, Alfred's smile is bitter. "They don't believe me, Arthur. They don't believe that I'm not the one that did that to him, or that England isn't even of our world. I'm a monster to them. My brother, Francis, Kiku… they won't even speak to me anymore."

Arthur swallows, eyes flickering downwards. He sees Alfred's trembling hand, Arthur moving to enclose his own hand around Alfred's. He doesn't have the words, simply trying to comfort Alfred. How could he react to such a thing? There were no words for what the two of them had been through thus far.

"But you know," Alfred says softly. "We don't have to go back."

"Are you mad?" Arthur cries, shocked by Alfred's statement. "Alfred, do you honestly think I want to stay here another moment? I abhor this place! All I've wanted for five years is to return with you… _home_."

Alfred shakes his head, his smile a bit… off. "Arthur. They've shunned us in the other world. Home is not as you think it is. It's not a warm place. Everyone thinks I am subduing you, and our countries have been ostracized."

"…But, we can explain to them. _I _can explain to…." Arthur trails off when he sees Alfred's darkening, icy eyes, knowing that it would be far too late to undo five years' damage. While Arthur suffered here, it seemed Alfred suffered just as much. The idea of their friends doing this to Alfred… Arthur's eyes narrow, finding that it seemed Alfred and him only had one another in whatever world they resided in. "…Then, what would you suggest we do? If someone with your face walked around in this world, there would be disaster."

"Then we go back," Alfred whispers. "But we don't go back the same way we came."

Arthur doesn't have time to question the meaning of this before the two of them disappear from the bed amidst a burst of light.

* * *

There is a manor on the eastern coast of North America that engulfs an unreasonable mileage of land. If anyone had been observant enough, they would have remembered a two story American Colonial that had once been there, the sizing much more modest in comparison to what now had swallowed its place. The behemoth of a home curled around a sharp cliff overlooking the bay, winding down with new additions to taper off on the sand. It was a collection of buildings, all marked the same by a crest embellished in gold.

The crest itself is a mixture of two distinct flags, both of them flying high next to a flag bearing the crest above the manor. In clear, black print on the crested flag is a name. A single name that would mark a new era.

The Empire of the United States of America and the United Kingdom.

* * *

**A/N: **I think it's time to give the boys a rest for a while... but you can request a sequel to Orchard of Mines in your review if you wish. Please check out the next chapter for a teaser for the sequel.

Thank you for all your feedback thus far!

I will be working on my future projects now, so be on the look out for a new fic listed in my profile.


	17. Sequel Teaser

**A/N:** This is a teaser for a possible sequel to this fic. This scene best details the struggle that Alfred and Arthur go through after the events of Orchard of Mines.

* * *

A week passes by fairly quickly—and with each day that passes, Alfred's… _condition_ grows worse. The split between his personalities becomes more and more obvious as time goes on, especially with the added stress of the barrier between the worlds coming down.

Not that Arthur knows about that, which makes Alfred's stress even greater.

Arthur doesn't know what caused the deterioration in Alfred's state—he does, however, know that it doesn't bode well at all. Arthur at first attempts to do all he can from a limited standpoint, trying to stay out of Alfred's way when he grows intensely irate, figuring he needs room to breathe. Another part of Arthur is secretly afraid of the damage Alfred could do when provoked in his blind state. It continues like this for a few days, Arthur doing his best to stand clear when needed, but pouring his heart out in the aftermath, comforting Alfred to sleep and relax.

There are more and more times where Alfred feels himself dangerously close to snapping, his body constantly tense to the point of being jumpy and on edge, and his mind on overdrive twenty-four-seven. He finds himself occasionally blacking out, snapping back to consciousness to find himself in front of something shattered or broken, no doubt by his own hand if the rapidly-healing injuries on his knuckles were anything to go by. He always apologizes profusely, to the point of tears, only feeling all the more guilty and upset when Arthur forgives him and comforts him each and every time. He finds that these breakdowns only seem to happen when he's far from Arthur for too long, and they only really started this frequently since that dream he had.

After two days, he finally decides to be honest with Arthur and tell him at least _part_ of the problem. He mentions that he had a _precognitive_ dream of sorts—though he refuses to give any details about the dream—and that he feels calmer when Arthur is with him.

That's all the excuse Arthur needs to increase their physical contact, always sure to be pressed against Alfred in some way, skin or clothing. He calls in to work with a family emergency—something David finds comical, ending up with a harmless spell shooting through the telephone line. Arthur disconnects the phone, turning his personal cell off. He focuses all his attention on soothing Alfred, trying to ease whatever was burdening him... Whatever made this all take a turn for the worst, Arthur wanted it gone. He was afraid of Alfred's destruction—while he never hurt Arthur, Arthur was honestly scared. When Alfred would break down, when he would apologize and cry to Arthur, it made him even more afraid. Afraid to know Alfred wasn't in control of himself when he got like that. His anger took control of him—something _else_... _someone_ _else_ took control of him. How was Arthur ever going to fix him?

At night, Alfred finds that he physically can't fall asleep without Arthur's help, Alfred feeling eternally grateful for Arthur's kindness and patience as he lulls him to sleep every night and lets him sleep in late every morning. Alfred's breakdowns happen less and less often from that point on, but there are still a few occasions when Alfred finds himself slipping, the change becoming physically visible through his eyes darkening to an icy blue color as he becomes more tense and easily irritable—though never at Arthur. He never once directs any of his anger, irritation, or violence at Arthur _ever_, no matter how badly he snaps. He either hits something inanimate, or quietly seethes while thinking of America and the USSR and Ivan and everyone else that's ever irritated him in his life.

To Alfred's relief, Arthur isn't pushed away by Alfred's changes in behavior—he appears to be a bit unnerved, but he never leaves Alfred to seethe on his own. He always stays by his side until he can manage to coax Alfred's relaxed, happy personality back out. But after six days of Alfred's flip-flopping personality, Alfred finally breaks down, his mind and body unable to handle anymore.

"...I can't do this." He sits on the couch, hugging his knees to his chest. His voice is quiet and slightly choked up, tears starting to gather in his eyes. "It's so hard... I don't know how much longer I can keep pushing him back for." He suddenly feels scared… no, not even scared… _terrified_. The thought of turning into someone like America actually makes him physically ill, and Alfred forcefully pushes back his sudden nausea and dizziness. "I don't want to be like him…." He presses his face into his knees, his tears starting to roll down his cheeks. "I don't want to hurt people... I don't want to hurt you... but I don't know how much longer I can do this for. I don't get it—I've done everything right, so why am I still... Is it unavoidable? Do I really have to become like him?"

Arthur strokes Alfred's hair, holding him close. Alfred opens up to him suddenly, abruptly distressed. Arthur grips him tight, trying to fight off a fit of violence if need be. "...Alfred. It's nothing you've done. Please, whoever did this to me—did this to _you_… It's not your fault."

He doesn't even realize that his body is shaking slightly, his hands clenched so tightly that his nails break skin, a thin trail of blood trailing down each hand. His voice is shaky, lowering in volume as he chokes back sobs, feeling his chest clench in pain. "I-I'm not like him. I'm not a bad person. I don't want to hurt people but it's going to happen but I don't want to. I don't. I'm not like him, I'm not like him, I'm not!" His shaking gets worse as he gasps for breath, his eyes widening slightly.

_W-what's... I... c-can't breathe... can't... A-Arthur…._

Arthur bites his lip, offering up something he had been contemplating for a while now. "M-maybe your memories... Maybe we should erase those too—Alfred? Alfred?"

Arthur breaks off when he notices Alfred suddenly gasping for breath. He grips for Alfred, tilting his face to view his. "Alfred, what's wrong? S-say somethi—!" Arthur doesn't finish when he finds Alfred isn't breathing, placing his hand at Alfred's back. His heart thuds, Arthur frantically trying to soothe him.

"Alfred. Alfred, you're safe. You're safe," he repeats, rubbing small circles on Alfred's back as he runs his fingers through his hair. He tries his best to remain calm, knowing that his anxiety would only heighten Alfred's. "What started this? Think. If you can think why you're feeling panicked, you can let it pass."

Alfred's breathing shakily starts to even out, yet he still feels completely frayed and jittery despite how hard he tries to calm down. "I can't let it pass... It's not that simple. I... I'm becoming just like him. I can feel it, but I don't _want_ to. I'm not like that!" He clings to Arthur, tears rolling down his cheeks. "Y-you believe me, right? You know that I'm not a bad person, right? You know that I don't want to hurt anyone, right? I want to help people, not hurt them! But I'm going to end up hurting people anyway… I can feel it. I don't want to be like him…."

Arthur continues to attempt to reassure Alfred, rubbing at his shoulders. "Alfred, you can't possibly be a monster," he says matter-of-factly. "How are you becoming like that? I _know_ you don't want to hurt anyone. You aren't a bad person—you help people and are a hero. How could you possibly hurt people as you are? How could you be like him, whoever _he_ is?"

Shaking his head, Alfred speaks in fear. "...That's just it. 'As I am.' What if something happens and I'm... me, but not me? I... Fuck, I'm not even making any sense anymore. I can't even think straight. My head is killing me…." He squeezes his eyes shut, letting his head rest on Arthur's shoulder.

_I can't take it anymore... it's too much... but I have to keep holding on. I can't forget. I can never forget my mistakes from that other world. Those memories are the only thing keeping me from repeating those same mistakes here, and even that's hardly helping keep myself in check. I just want this all to go away. I want us to be able to be normal and not have to worry about things like this. It's not fair. I just want to rest…. _

"...I just want to rest," Alfred says, not even realizing that he verbalized his last thought, his voice drained and fatigued.

Arthur feels despaired for Alfred, unsure of what to say or do to help him but to simply _be_ there. How do you comfort someone who has been through enough to break _you_ and still remembers it?

He pulls Alfred closer to him, kissing the top of his head and nuzzling him, hoping that physical affection will help a good deal. "...I won't let you become something you're not. I promise you that. That's my duty." He holds Alfred tighter when he makes known how exhausted he is, Arthur running his fingers through Alfred's hair. "...Do you want me to help you to sleep?"

Arthur is about to help Alfred rest when Alfred advances quickly instead, turning on him. Alfred's eyes flash, and without any warning, he suddenly moves and pins Arthur down on the couch, hovering hardly a few inches over him. He stares down at Arthur with ice-blue eyes, devoid of any light, and chuckles—a dark sound containing no amusement whatsoever.

"Wh—?" he manages to utter before taking in Alfred's eyes, lifeless and cold. Arthur swallows hard at the darkness in every part of him, inching back reflexively into the couch.

"...'You won't let him become something he's not', hm?" come the words out of "Alfred's" mouth. "Sorry to say this, but you can't keep pushing me back, Arthur. This body is just as much mine as it is his."

* * *

**A/N:** If you would like to have the rest of this RP turned into a sequel fic, please say so in a review!


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